


One Last Mission

by unilocular



Category: NCIS
Genre: Episode Tag: 14x24 Rendezvous, Gen, Navy SEALs, Past Tiva, Tony Comes out of Retirement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-20
Updated: 2018-01-14
Packaged: 2018-11-02 19:08:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 42,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10950879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unilocular/pseuds/unilocular
Summary: After the events in Paraguay, Tony DiNozzo comes out of retirement. Episode continuation from Rendezvous (14x24).





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> General spoilers up to 14x24. Moderate violence. Language. Past Tiva.
> 
> Cover Art is by Red_Pink_Dots

For the first time in his life, Tim McGee just _reacts._

His overactive brain, so accustomed to calculating threat assessments and survival odds, stays quiet for a split second too long. It's just long enough for him to leap out of a Navy helo that is three feet off the ground and well on its way to safety.

"McGee!" Nick Torres yells.

Without even looking back, Tim runs straight into the down and dirty gunfight between his boss and the band of rebel bastards. He heads right to Jethro Gibbs' position in a grove of mango trees. When he joins his boss, Tim squeezes of a shot to drop a rebel that had his rifle aimed for them.

Gibbs looks over, eyes wide and face sour.

"McGee," he barks.

"I'm here, boss," Tim sputters.

Gibbs' gaze floats to the Navy helo overhead as though to tell Tim that he's supposed to be _there_. The helo hangs above them, almost taunting them, before it rushes away. The wind from the propellers sends Tim and Gibbs' hats flying, the leaves on the trees swirling.

Loose dust kicks up around them. Tim chokes on it. Through the haze, he makes out the shapes of the rebels. Muscle-bound, broad-shouldered men loom like giants through the cloudy air.

_How can there be so many of them?_

The rebels' movements are precise and practiced as they draw closer. Taking a step closer to Tim, Gibbs puts his left hand out to keep the younger man behind him. But it doesn't help because the rebels close in from every direction.

A new hail of gunfire shreds the trees around Tim and Gibbs.

Tim squeezes off a few more shots. Then, his Sig jams.

He fumbles with the slide, desperately trying to unlock it. By his counts, he should have one—maybe, two—bullets left in his magazine. But right now, it's enough. It has to be. Because that's all he has to keep him and Gibbs alive. It doesn't work.

Gibbs takes down two more rebels before his gun clicks. Empty.

As though knowing how precarious Tim and Gibbs' position is, the rebels advance. Someone starts yelling in Spanish. Harsh and guttural. Commanding.

Tim doesn't have to understand a word to know what is happening.

Gibbs steps in front of Tim.

And in that moment, the world seems to stop. The shouting continues, but it sounds far away like the rebel leader is clear on the other side of the planet. Someone fires a warning shot. When Tim and Gibbs' eyes meet, the younger man recognizes dread and fear. The disappointment surprises him.

"You shouldn't be here, McGee," Gibbs says thinly.

Raw fear blossoms in Tim's gut because he can't believe this is really happening, can't believe the shit storm he stepped into. Up until ten minutes ago, the mission was clean. Easy. In and out. They were supposed to sneak in, save those boys, and hop on that helo like heroes. Another hop, skip, and a jump and he was supposed to be home in time to grab brunch with Delilah tomorrow morning.

Oh fuck. His wife.

His beautiful, _pregnant_ wife.

The sight of his wedding ring sends him crashing back to Earth. He is a husband now. Going to be a father soon. Before, it was just him and the job. Always the freaking job. Now, he isn't just him who he needs to think about anymore. Everything is about _them._ His wife and unborn child.

_I might never get to meet him or her._

More yelling.

Gibbs' half-nod tells Tim everything he needs to know. His body shakes, tears spring to his eyes, as he casts his useless weapon aside. Following Gibbs' lead, Tim puts his hands behind his head.

He falls to his knees.

And prays.

_-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-_

Whomever told Tony DiNozzo that Paris in April was perfection must've never visited in May. Just on the edge of summer, the flowers are in full bloom, filling the air with their heavenly scent. The weather is just right: warm, but not hot enough to send the nude sunbathers out in full force. The sun hangs high overhead amongst a picture-perfect sky filled with clouds that appear to stretch on forever.

In the Jardin des Tuileries, the tulips put on their show for everyone who comes to view it. The center fountain is teeming with little wooden sailboats that children poke at with sticks.

Sitting on a bench, Tony watches Tali tap at a boat with a pink sail. His father, Tony DiNozzo Senior, sits by her side on the fountain edge. She is on her knees, stretching as far as she can over the algae green water. When she lurches forward, Senior catches her and helps her reach her boat.

Tony smiles at the sight.

Paris must be magic because somewhere on these winding streets, his father remembered how to be a dad and a decent human being. After Tony left NCIS, his father was the only one to help with Tali. To hold her when he couldn't anymore. To rub her back when she would cry out for her _Ima._ To take her on those moment when Tony needed a break. To watch after her when Tony went on that whirlwind trip around the Middle East on the rumor that Ziva David might still be alive. And to comfort Tony when he found out from his contacts in Palestine that she did truly die in that farmhouse fire. While it is very late that Senior became his father, it is enough for Tony.

When Tali looks up from her boat, her brown ringlets cascade over her hazel eyes. Pushing them out of the way, she laughs so heartily that her entire body quakes.

Tony's heart clenches.

For every day that slips past, she forgets Ziva a little more. But what she loses only reappears on her face and in her hair and in her motions as she resembles her mother more with every passing moment.

When she catches him staring, she smiles broadly.

"Abba!" she calls. Then she motions at the boat, _Come play with me._

He gestures back. _In a moment, my love._

Signing is the easiest way for them to communicate. Her speech still comes in fits and starts. Bits of Hebrew peppered with English. Throw in the French she hears in the city and at three years old, she still can't formulate coherent sentences.

He just wants to sit here. Because in these quiet moments, it's as though Ziva is next to him on the park bench, experiencing their little girl growing up.

His cell rings.

He sighs.

More than likely, work. Always work. While he could leave law enforcement, it turned out that it wouldn't ever leave him. When he settled in Paris, he became a munitions course instructor for Interpol. It's enough to keep his fingers wet and dirty, but still safe enough that Tali will always have one parent.

Another ring.

"Yeah," he answers.

_"Agent DiNozzo."_ The voice on the other end is familiar and foreign at the same time.

"Director Vance?" Tony asks, incredulously. Before he remembers: "I'm not an agent anymore."

_"I apologize, Officer DiNozzo. Old habits die hard."_ There's a short pause. _"I trust Paris and Interpol are treating you well."_

Jumping up and down, Tali vies for Tony's attention. He signs at her, _I'm coming, I promise._

"Yeah, they're going great. I still owe you a fruit basket for helping me land the job with Interpol." Tony chuckles anxiously. "Who knew training French probies could be so much fun? My last class was like a whole room full of Jacques Clouseaus."

_"You mean the marine biologist?"_

"That's Jacques Cousteau." Tony bites his lip. "Haven't you ever seen _The Pink Panther_ with Peter Sellers, Director?"

_"Not yet."_

Tony checks his watch. Just barely mid-morning in Paris, which means it is middle of the night back in Washington. Which means, Vance probably didn't call to discuss Peter Sellers' movies. Only something important would cause the director to call him without provocation.

Something that feels a lot like fear bubbles up in Tony's gut.

"You didn't call me to discuss movies, did you?" Tony asks.

_"It's about your former team."_

Tony chest tightens. "Who's dead?"

_"No one."_ Vance pauses for a long beat. _"At least, not yet."_

Over by the fountain, Tali shrieks like she does when she doesn't get her way. She signs at him like crazy, but Tony can't focus on her, can't focus on anything except for his nerves.

"What do you mean 'not yet'?"

_"Agents Gibbs and McGee were in Paraguay when their mission went haywire. They were taken hostage by a group of FARC-wannabes."_

"Oh G-d." Tony rubs his hand over his face. "Have there been any demands yet?"

_"None."_

"Then, you know those rebels aren't planning on releasing them." He covers his eyes with his free hand, as though it could hide every scenario playing out in his mind. "Or they're trying to make a point."

Vance doesn't say a word.

Tony swallows hard. "What's the plan for the rescue mission?"

_"They were the rescue mission."_ Vance lets that sink in for a moment. _"But yes, there are things in the works with one of the SEAL teams to get them out. Hopefully, alive."_

"Is there anything I can do? I mean, it's hard with – "

_"Actually, that was the point of this call, DiNozzo._ " Tony swears he hears the smile in Vance's voice. Of course, he would be while he suggests a suicide mission. _"The SEAL team could use your help to track Gibbs and McGee's movements in the rebel camp during the raid."_

Tony gapes at the phone. "Are you suggesting that I go to Paraguay?"

_"Not quite. I'm requesting your services as a civilian consultant."_ He clucks his tongue. _"Or an Interpol liaison. Whatever you'd like to call it."_

After pulling the phone away from his ear, Tony stares at it. He pinches himself, just to make sure that he isn't dreaming.

"Are you crazy?"

_"Perhaps the better word is desperate."_ Vance sighs. _"Look, DiNozzo. The SEAL team's tactical expert doesn't understand Gibbs the way that you do. Both you and I know he can be a tad…unpredictable. After thirteen years together, I trust you would know how he would act better than anyone."_

Tony nods. "He would do whatever it takes to save McGee."

_"Right. So you can appreciate why I'd prefer to have someone who'd know how they'd respond when all hell breaks loose down there."_

"Yeah, I get it."

_"I've had one of our agents book you on the next flight out of Charles De Gaulle."_

Tony hesitates.

_"Only if you choose to, DiNozzo."_

From her spot at the fountain, Tali lets out a whoop. Even though Senior desperately tries to distract her, she is laser-focused on Tony. Her eyes have that same awareness that Ziva's used to. The way she could simply glean all his secrets with a single glance. Throughout the past year, Tali has been a constant, living reminder of the teammate—the love—he couldn't protect.

And now, those he left behind are in mortal danger.

Rolling his head back, Tony stares up at the clouds that look like spun candy floss. Somewhere to the south, angry storm clouds loom, ready to sweep through and ruin everything.

_Will I still be able to catch that flight to Paraguay?_

"Abba! Abba!" Tali cries.

Ever since he learned about her, Tali became his entire world. Because of her, he was finally able to abandon his frat-boy persona and become a real man. But before her, there was someone else who pushed him to be a better man, a fine-tuned machine, a damned good agent. Gibbs molded him into the person he was meant to be; Tali just perfected him.

"Abba!"

And Tim deserved to experience the domestic bliss that is parenthood. After Tony heard the news that the wedding was moved up, he gave his International Best Man speech over a Skype and a bowl of cereal in his pajamas while the impromptu Fielding-McGee nuptials went long into the night Washington time. When they—okay, so it was Abby—blurted out the good news, Tony had seen excitement and elation and fear in Tim's eyes. He deserves it more than anyone.

_If Tim didn't get a chance to meet his kid…_

"Abba!"

_Sorry, my heart, but Daddy needs to help his friends._

_"Look, DiNozzo, I shouldn't have presumed – "_

Tony clears his throat. "Tell the SEAL team I'll meet them at the airport."


	2. Chapter 2

Two rebels with assault rifles, barely teenagers, take Tim's watch. After a more thorough search, they discover his creds, his back-up weapons, the SatPhone, and his belt with the little knife that Tony gave him. Before he has a chance to mourn the loss, one of them motions for his wedding band.

The last piece he has of _her._ Of _them._

Clasping his hands over his heart, Tim buries the ring into his chest. He repeats the only Spanish word he knows and the only one that matters.

" _Por favor._ Let me keep it," he says. No, he _begs_ and he _knows_ it _._

The rebel motions with his hand.

Tim's expression goes wild. _"Por favor._ My wife _."_

The rebel glances back to his friend, who motions to stop wasting time. There's an unspoken thought in their expression _We'll just take it off his corpse later._ Tim shudders. After rolling his eyes, the rebel kicks Tim in the back. He ends up sprawled in the dirt, coughing and hacking and sputtering.

"Hey dirtbags!" Gibbs barks.

When they set their sights on Gibbs, Tim keeps his ring. He pushes to his knees, thanking G-d for small mercies. After the rebels finish with Gibbs, they gather in a circle to converse. Tim tries to take a quick count, but with the movement, he can't keep up. He estimates there are twelve, maybe fifteen hostiles.

Gibbs leans over. "If you get an opening, you take it."

Tim blinks. "But – "

Gibbs' glare shuts Tim right up. And he nods to tell his boss that he got the order, loud and clear.

From inside the circle, one by one, the rebels begin whooping as though they're trying to psyche themselves up. It whips around the group like wildfire until they are all howling like the monkeys that lurk in the rainforest trees.

Tim's heart drops. He rolls his wedding ring between his thumb and his forefinger.

_Will I ever see you again?_

Suddenly, there's a feral bark from one of the men and they all go silent. A rebel, who doesn't look anything like the others, approaches them. He is not more than a boy, reedy and tall and gap-toothed. His bones jut through his skin like knife blades from malnourishment. An oversized, grey tank-top and shorts hang off his body like they are on a clothesline.

"We leave now," the boy says, his voice heavily accented.

"Where are we going?" Tim asks.

The boy doesn't look at him. "You no need know."

Tim accepts the answer because a group of machete and assault-rifle toting juvenile delinquents decide exactly how much he needs to know right now. And with all those weapons, he is quite comfortable knowing jack-shit.

Gibbs refuses to give up so easily. "What should we call you?"

When the boy glances up, his eyes are blacker that Gibbs' coffee.

"What is your name?" Gibbs points to himself, "I'm Gibbs." Then point to Tim. "That's Tim."

The boy crooks his thumb at his chest. "Manzo."

Gibbs half-nods. "Nice to meet you."

As soon as Manzo sneaks a little smile, the leader of the group barks a nasty-sounding command. Manzo lets out a little gasp while Gibbs sets his jaw. And Tim, again, wishes he hadn't taken French in high school because knowing how to order a croissant in a Parisian bakery is _so_ not helping right now.

"We go," Manzo says. "We go now."

And with that, they set off.

Tim and Gibbs are forced to march through brush so thick that it takes three men with machetes to clear it. The terrain is hazardous, a mixture of overgrown tree roots and muddy ground and rain-soaked leaves. Even if they were crazy enough to escape, there is simply _nowhere_ to go. In every direction lies the jungle, thick and lush. Beautiful like a background wallpaper Tim had on his computer once. Only now, he comprehends how deadly it is.

They walk for hours. At least, it _feels_ like hours.

The sun races across the cloudless sky. It's heat sneaks through the leaves and gets caught in the under canopy. Even though its autumn in the Southern Hemisphere, the temperatures steadily climb towards sweltering. Add in the suffocating humidity and the air grows thick enough to drown in.

Sweat soaks through Tim's shirt. And while he feels like he wants to die, Gibbs appears to be mildly uncomfortable. Tim chalks it up to all those years he spent hunkered down in the desert.

During the times they stop for a short rest, the rebels share their canteens and snacks wrapped in bananas leaves. Gibbs shows Tim how to sip drops of water captured on the low-hanging leaves. There is never enough to quench his thirst.

As the sun starts to dip lower on the horizon, Tim's throat grows drier, scratchier. His head pounds in time with his footsteps. The jungle in front of him blurs into a carousel of green. He closes his eyes, feeling the world spin around him. Like if he just lets himself go, Delilah would be the one to catch him.

Someone tugs on his arm.

"Tim," Manzo urges. "Walk."

"I am," he says, voice cracking.

"Alejandro, get angry." His face pinches. "Not good."

"I'm walking," Tim slurs.

He is a liar, standing stock still while the rebels move around him. He tries to take a step, but misses the ground entirely. He ends up landing hard on his right shoulder. He yelps.

Gibbs is at his side instantly. "McGee."

"Up," Manzo urges. "Up, Tim."

The ordeal catches the attention of the rebel leader, who Tim assumes is Alejandro. After stalking over, Alejandro and his right-hand man have their rifles pointed at Tim and Gibbs. They bark their orders. Even Tim doesn't have to speak Spanish to know that they're telling him to get his lazy ass out of the grass and moving.

_I'm going to get us killed._

Gibbs rises to stand in front of the weapons.

"Boss…" Tim starts to get up. Loses his balance. Falls flat on his butt.

The leader blinks, clearly confused by Gibbs' show.

"Give us water," Gibbs says. "Or shoot us."

Manzo has the grace to look away.

When the rebel leader's brow scrunches, Gibbs berates him in Spanish.

"Boss," Tim croaks. "I'm…good…"

Scrambling to his feet, Tim tries to show that he's ready to go. That he doesn't need any damned water or anything to drink. Because, despite what Gibbs says, he really isn't ready die here, in the jungle, thousands of miles away from everything he loves.

The rebel leader raises his eyebrows. Then, he tosses a canteen at Gibbs' feet. Without breaking eye contact with the rebel leader, Gibbs hands it to Tim.

Tim sips a little. "Boss, you should drink too."

Gibbs takes it, barely drinking any before he gives it back. Tim chugs the rest of it.

"Thank you," he says.

While the rebel leader ignores him, he gives Gibbs a respectful nod. As though he might be impressed by Gibbs' willingness to die for his man.

_It won't come to that, boss. I promise._

With Gibbs' help to get Tim to his feet, they are off again. Long after the jungle falls into darkness, they come upon what appears to be a small encampment built into the mountainside. The moonlight is so bright that it's almost like daylight when they walk into the center of the village, which is a group of thatched huts centered around a fire pit. Other than the jungle sounds, only a few muted conversations carrying from the nearby dwellings.

One by one, the rebels disperse until only Alejandro, Manzo, Tim, Gibbs and two others are left.

Tim and Gibbs are led to small hut at the edge of the village. There, the rebels bind Tim and Gibbs' hands behind their backs. When they sit down on the ground, their ankles are bound as well.

"Just stay," Manzo says as though they have a choice. "I try get food. Tomorrow, maybe."

And with that, the rebels leave them.

As soon as they're alone, Tim struggles to against the ropes. "Alright, boss, now what? We get loose and get the hell out of here. Right? Hike down that mountain and back to town. It's that easy. Right?"

Gibbs remains quiet. Too quiet.

"Right, boss?"

Still silence.

Tim's voice jumps an octave. _"Right?"_

Gibbs doesn't look at him. "I don't know, Tim."

_-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-_

When Tony's airplane starts its descendent into Ciudad del Este, he pushes up the window flap to watch the large city and modern airport appear on the ground below. It starts as a pinprick, a dark-colored patch of civilization in the middle of dense jungle. But as they grow closer, the aging and rain-beaten skyscrapers quickly take shape in the modern, cosmopolitan town. It is a tame oasis in a wild country.

After the airplane bumps into the landing on the rickety runway—the pilot apologizes, sounding like he does all the time—Tony pulls his only piece of luggage from the overhead bin. He never could retire his old go-bag from NCIS. When he checked it in Paris, it was still packed with the bare essentials: backup boots and extra boxers. He hastily added the notes about rebel group that Vance sent him before he left. In his hands, it feels _so_ different from the garment bags of Zegna and Armani and the Dora the Explorer backpack that he and Tali usually tote during international travel.

The sun beats through the windows.

Who the hell knows what day it is? Tony sure doesn't.

It all blended together on that sleepless 18-hour flight.

Not that it really matters in the end. Time hangs in the balance here while he caught between worlds. Who he was and who he is. The only thing that matters is his friends are missing and he is headed for a full-on collision with the life he left behind for Tali.

Tony heaves his go-bag higher on his shoulder. The travelers take their time departing. Removing their bags. Shuffling through the aisles. Thanking the pilot and flight attendants for their hard work. To them, time doesn't matter.

On the way out, a pretty, Asian flight attendant shows off her perfect smile.

"Enjoy your trip," she sing-songs.


	3. Chapter 3

Getting through customs takes _forever._ When Tony escapes—okay, so he might've lied to expedite things. But who was the agent to say that he wasn't set to do research in the rainforest?—the welcome reception isn't quite what he expected.

Nick Torres greets him, two coffee cups in hand. For someone Tony has only seen on a computer screen, the man looks completely different in real life. He is shorter with thicker muscles and a fuller face. A two-day old shadow overgrows his normal well-maintained, _yeah, I'm so cool_ scruff. There is something about looking at his replacement, in the flesh, that freaks Tony the hell out.

Nodding, Nick waggles the coffee in front of Tony.

Before he even says hello, Tony takes it and starts chugging. It tastes like the shit they used to have at NCIS, but he'll drink anything as long as it has caffeine in it.

Nick watches him with rapt interest.

"You're the infamous Tony DiNozzo, huh?" he says, almost like he's disappointed.

Tony crooks an eyebrow. He is used to people underestimating him, but damn, he only met Nick thirty seconds ago.

"That wasn't what I meant." Nick flinches. "It came out wrong." Clearing his throat, he looks away. "It's been a rough couple of days. And now, with the SEALs. I'm just glad to see a sorta familiar face."

"Yeah, it wasn't too long ago that we Skyped."

"McGee's wedding last week." Nick nods. "Nice best man speech, by the way. I never knew you could add Mc in front of so many words."

Tony laughs at the memory, fast and fleeting. The boozy smiles of his friends, halfway around the world, as he razzed Tim with everything from his Probie baby steps to how he met Delilah to the respect Tony has for him. Tony wasn't supposed to see them again until McGee's official wedding at the end of June.

Nick is still talking. "I tried calling him McGoober the next day. Man, I thought McGee was gonna punch my lights out."

_That doesn't sound like McGee._

"What did he do to you?" Tony asks.

"He made me search every dumpster on our next case. Even after we found our weapon," Nick says, nose wrinkling. "Just in case we missed something."

Tony bites back a laugh. "Good thing to know Probie learned a few tricks."

Nick makes a face. It's enough to get Tony back on track.

"What the hell happened out here?" Tony asks.

"It'll be better if I catch you up on the drive."

After a quick nod, Tony follows Nick out of the airport and towards a rickety, rusted out Land Rover. For a hemisphere that is well on its way to winter, the air is still scorching and sticky. Pollution hangs around them, catching the greenhouse gases and making it feel even hotter. The sun beats down on them. Instantly, Tony starts sweating through his button down, flannel shirt.

He blinks owlishly.

Nick chuckles. "It's Tuesday morning. Around 10AM."

"Christ, I feel like I already lived through this."

_"Groundhog Day?"_ Nick offers.

Tony's brow pinches. "That's the same day in some little town place over and over. We're in Paraguay. Try a bad episode of the _Twilight Zone."_

Overtop of the car, Nick gives it some thought. "If you say so."

Then with a shrug, he slips into the SUV. Tony hops into the passenger seat, straps his safety belt.

Nick just laughs. "Where we're headed, that's not going to help."

"And where are we going?" Tony asks.

"Las Rexachitas. Rebel territory."

Before Tony has a chance to respond, Nick puts the car in gear and it lurches forward. Once they leave the modern four lane highways, the paved roads give way to pot-hole laden dirt roads while eventually blend into treacherous mountain passes that pitch into the jungle below. The only thing the safety belt does is keep Tony firmly planted in his seat as the SUV bounces around like a leaf in a hurricane. He holds onto the door with white knuckles, willing himself not to look at the drop off.

Thankfully, Nick gives Tony the long version on the way. It's almost like interviewing a witness. He explains what the hell the team was doing out in this G-dforsaken place. He tells Tony about their one-handed Petty Officer, Matthew Dean, and his vigilante mission to rob the rebels. The missing boys. The rescue mission that went to hell. And Tim. Tim leaping off that helo.

"Why would he do that?" After considering for a moment, Nick shakes his head. "And you? Why would you leave your little girl to come here?"

"It's the way Gibbs trained me. Never leave a man behind." Tony shrugs. "The team's like my family."

Nick takes his eyes off the road to give Tony a _look._ Tony grabs onto the door handle with both hands just in case they pitch off the side of the road. Not that it would help. At all.

"I think it's…" Nick pauses as though think of the right word.

_Stupid. Crazy. Suicidal._

_"_ …honorable," Nick finishes.

Tony half-smiles. "That's not the word I would use."

After a quiet laugh and over a few more bumpy miles, Nick regals Tony with stories about SEAL Team Three sent for the rescue mission. Eight men, Nick says, will be doing reconnaissance in the brush and trying to piece together where the rebels could have taken Gibbs and Tim. Outside the car window, the jungle reaches all the way to the mountain peaks and beyond.

_They could be anywhere._

Tony's heart sinks.

Suddenly, the ride grows less ragged and bone-jarring. The steep drop offs turn into a mountain pass and the trees spread before them like Moses parting the Red Sea. And they find salvation in the little town, Las Rexachitas.

Nick deftly maneuvers the SUV up to a small well.

"Alright. We're here," he announces.

As though here is any place other than at the edge of the world. Calling Las Rexachitas a town is like calling a recruit a Navy SEAL. It is a collection of run-down buildings and thatched roof lean-tos that could be considered houses. There is a canteen with a weathered sign that proclaims _Cervezas._ A shanty town in the middle of the jungle. The only place that appears to be well-maintained is a sun-baked, white-faced church built in a mission style with a stark crucifix that cracks against the cloudless sky.

There are a few people lingering by the well, chatting. At the sight of Tony and Nick, they share hasty goodbyes before slipping away without looking over. In a few moments, a pair of long-horned cows are the only signs of life.

When Nick slides out of the car, Tony follows. As soon as his feet touch the ground, he struggles to catch his step.

Nick laughs. "You won't be able to feel your ass for while."

"That ride is rough," Tony says.

"Tell me about it." Grinning, Nick rubs his own ass. "Does this remind you of a movie or what? Because I've got one in mind."

Tony smiles. " _The Rundown_ with the Rock and Christopher Walkin?"

"That's it. How did you know?"

"You seem like someone who would be a fan of The Rock."

Nick nods. "I take that as a compliment."

Tony changes the subject. "So where do we go now?"

With the wave of his hand, Nick leads Tony towards a shack on the other side of the well. They slip through a piece of sheet metal that serves as a door.

"Welcome to HQ, my friend," Nick announces.

Inside, it looks like a modern Naval station. Pop-up beds line the walls along with folding tables and laptop computers. There are four SEALs already here, two working at the computers and two sleeping on the cots.

On the far wall hangs a geographical map marked with yellow, red, and blue thumbtacks. Next to it are Tim and Gibbs' old personnel photos. They are exactly how Tony remembers them. Tim with those sallow and sunken cheeks from the—no sugar, no alcohol, no fun—diet du jour and Gibbs with his haunted, stand-offish stare. Based on their last Skype conversation, neither of them look remotely like that anymore.

Tony's heart kicks up.

Maybe it's the crushing realization that Tim and Gibbs are other there, lost in that jungle. Or perhaps it's the excitement of getting back into the action Tony thought he left behind for good.

_I can't believe this is happening._

He takes a steadying breath.

_This happened._

One of the SEALs rises from his computer. He is far taller than he looks, besting Tony by a few inches. His face, like is body, is thick and square, with a touch of wrinkles hinting at the experience of missions past. His hulking muscles strain to escape his green fatigues. Blonde peach fuzz covers his nearly bald head. Military runs like blood in his veins.

When he heads over, Tony holds his hand out. Ignoring it, the SEAL gives Tony a once over. He half-shrugs to himself, as though he doesn't expect Tony to do anything anyway.

"So you're the personnel expert they flew in from Paris," the SEAL says.

Tony shakes his head. "Not quite an expert. More like a former NCIS agent."

The SEAL shrugs. "It doesn't matter what you are, if you can help. I heard your man Gibbs is a loose cannon. I need someone to help ensure that he doesn't fuck up my mission."

Tony disguises a laugh as a cough.

Even when he worked side-by-side with his former boss, he still couldn't rein Gibbs in no matter how hard he tried. On his best days, Gibbs was a powder keg, itching to blow a suspect to bits. On his worst, he was suicidal SOB who wanted to go out with a blaze of glory.

"As always, his reputation precedes him," Tony says.

"Director Vance had some choice words." The SEAL genuinely laughs. "Either way, I'm glad to have you on board, DiNozzo. I am MPO Grange." He points to the two sleeping SEALs. "That's Miller and Ashwood." Then he gestures to the other SEAL behind a computer, who waves a bandaged stump of his right hand. "That's Dean."

Before Tony has a chance to ask, Nick leans over. " _He_ was our case"

"Ah," Tony says, nodding.

"Let's get you caught up." As Grange leads them to the map, he recounts details that Tony already gleaned from the file and Nick. Then he points to a red pushpin on the map. "We have reason to believe the rebels are holding Gibbs and McGee here."

"How far is that?" Tony asks.

"Two clicks. Southwest."

Tony presses his lips together.

Crossing his arms, Grange narrows his eyes. "You don't seem convinced."

"If they were there, McGee would be back by now."

Grange shoots Tony an _Alright, I'm listening_ look _._

"McGee might look like a desk jockey, but he is a lot tougher than that. He could make that hike alone. It might take a while, but he'd do it. And we know Gibbs is going to do everything to save him." Pausing for a moment, Tony looks away. "Gibbs has a hero complex. He wants to go out guns blazing. If he knew McGee could make it back on his own, he would do what he needed to."

Grange's brow furrows as he stares back at the map.

"It makes sense," Nick says. "The rebels could be setting up another trap. After all, it did seem like they knew we were coming the first time."

Grange looks over. "You did say earlier you thought there was a leak in the village. We haven't had an opportunity to interview anyone yet."

"With all due respect, sir," Nick says, "these people won't talk to outsiders."

"And _you're_ one of them?" Grange asks.

Nick wavers for a moment. "No, not really. But they already trust me."

Tony and Grange just stare at him.

Nick holds his hands up. "What can I say? I just have the touch."

Not quite sure what to do, Grange rolls his eyes. "Fine, the last platoon is due tomorrow at 1400 anyway. It'll keep you two busy while we consider DiNozzo's theory."

Tony squares his shoulders. "It's possible that when we find the leak, they'll know where McGee and Gibbs are being held. It'll probably take a few days to really dig in and – "

Grange interrupts. "You have 24 hours."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not only Red_Pink_Dots awesome enough to make one piece of cover art, she was awesome enough to update the cover art after the last chapters. I loved both, so she graciously allowed me to use both of them for the story. I included it in this post since art is always nice. :) 
> 
> Please be aware that the italics in Tony's chapter is due to the conversation taking place in Spanish.

As soon as they leave the SEALs' makeshift headquarters, the temperature jumps from stifling to scorching. Even though the room had no air conditioning, being out of the blazing sun made Tony feel cool, almost comfortable. He commiserates with the dinners he usually burns while Tali runs amok.

_Out of the frying pan and into the fire._

He puts on his Aviator sunglasses, then soaks in the little town. Maybe he didn't recognize it when they got here, but it looks a hell of a lot like the set from _Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid._ Though he prefers not to think about how that one ended. And well, while Tony sometimes likens himself to Robert Redford—though most will say Robert Wagner. _Ha, yeah right_ —Nick Torres is no Paul Newman.

His eyes jump from the tiny church to the well to a ramshackle saloon. Anywhere in this crop of building could be the person who knows where the rebels took Tim and Gibbs. But if they find out about the SEALs who are going to be planning a rescue mission…well, Tony doesn't even want to consider _that._

While Tony is thankful for the work as a distraction, he doesn't even know where to start. He is picking up mid-situation, flailing and floundering ass-backwards without knowing which way is up. Nor does it help that his investigative muscles are out of use and out of practice. With his friends' lives on the line, playing detective with a rambunctious and unfocused three-year-old hardly seems like a good way to stay fresh. He hopes he remembers how to do this.

_It should come back. Just like riding a bike, right?_

Nick edges closer. "Any ideas?"

Tony tilts his head, considering. "Let's start at the beginning, Torres. What did you three do first?"

"Well, Gibbs went for a walk. McGee – " Nick wrinkles his nose as he thinks " – went into the bar to use the bathroom because he wouldn't go when we stopped. Who won't whiz in the woods?"

"Tim." Tony smirks. "He won't go anywhere that he can't flush."

"Yeah, I know, man. It's _weird."_

Tony doesn't say anything. It was one of those quirks that he got used to over the years. Like Ellie Bishop sitting on the floor. Or Abby Scuito trying to discover the LD50 for caffeine. Or Gibbs contending that glare was as powerful as a full conversation. Finding a bathroom in the middle of bumblefuck Somalia was annoying and nearly impossible at the time. But those are the little things—the strange, quirky weirdness that made his friends _his friends—_ that he misses more than anything in his new life.

"Did anything happen?" he asks.

"I stayed with the car. But…" Nick closes his eyes. "Come to think of it, McGee did say a woman in the bar asked him a question. At least, he _thought_ it was a question."

Tony's eyes slip towards the bar. "What did she say?"

Nick shrugs. "I don't know. McGee doesn't speak Spanish. So, we didn't think anything of it."

"Until now."

All Nick offers is a grimace. At least, he has the grace to look away.

"Did you interview her?" Tony presses.

Nick shakes his head. "She was on our witness list. But after Gibbs heard about those boys, he wanted to get there as soon as possible. We heard rumors that they were about to be moved."

Tony pinches the bridge of his nose. He doesn't miss Gibbs' knack for running into battle with guns blazing and asking questions while the team filled out the casualty report. Why did they move into such a precarious op without due diligence? Surely, they needed even more than Gibbs' gut to embark on a rescue mission that was worthy of a special ops team.

Tony's own gut bubbles.

_Gibbs and McGee had no idea what they were walking into._

"That woman is involved," Tony says harshly. "Give me her name."

Panic sweeps across Nick's face as he fumbles through his pockets. In the side one of his cargoes, he yanks out a wad of paper. With an anxious laugh, he scrolls through the list.

"Griselda Ramos," he replies.

"Let's go find out what she knows."

"She should be at the bar."

As they head towards the cantina, Nick falls in step with Tony. Neither man breathes a word. Tony too caught up in wondering when Gibbs became even more reckless than before and Nick, likely, that an ignored detail led to losing two of his team.

Dust kicks up around them, billowing up and out with every step. For the first time in a long time, Tony feels dirty, revolting down to his very core. He doesn't know how far he'll fall down the rabbit hole, but he's willing to dig straight to hell if it brings his friends home alive. He thought he left this terrifying sliver of himself—that part willing to do whatever it takes, just like Gibbs trained him—back at NCIS when he resigned. But now, these old feelings rise like a leviathan surfacing on a clear ocean.

_I hope I can still look my little girl in the eye when I'm done._

The door to the saloon is nothing more than a piece of plywood held in place with a single hinge. It doesn't even have a lock. Once they are inside, Tony understands why. It isn't that there isn't anything worth stealing, but there isn't _anything_ to steal. There are a few plastic desk chairs and a grimy glass table. The bar is scrapped together with uneven bits of more plywood and sawhorses. Behind it, an old soda fridge full of beer bottles, wearing a shiny new padlock, grumbles always to itself. The only source of light is a bare bulb suspended in the middle of the ceiling.

A portly man with a gleaming bald head stands behind the bar. His grey t-shirt is stained with sweat and riddled with holes. Whether it's from wear or moths, Tony isn't really sure. At the sight of the newcomers, he crosses his arms and nearly bares his teeth.

Nick leans over. "Is it just me or do you feel like we're about to get murdered?"

"Maybe," Tony replies, "but that guy sure as hell isn't Han Solo. So I think we're safe."

Nick blinks before asking: "Do you mean _Star Wars_ because we're in a cantina in the middle of nowhere?"

Tony just rolls his eyes.

"Nice reference, man."

The man behind the bar sizes them up. _"You aren't welcome here."_

_"We're looking for Griselda Ramos,"_ Tony says, falling back into his Spanish with a practiced ease.

_"She is not here."_ His gaze threatens to burn them both to ash. _"You need to leave. Now."_

_"Where can we find her?"_

The man doesn't speak.

_"We are looking for our friends,"_ Tony says, trying to connect somehow.

Still nothing.

Nick jumps in. _"Aren't you her husband, Emilio?"_

When more perspiration pours down the man's face, Tony knows they are speaking to Emilio Ramos. By the looks of things, he is just an ordinary citizen, trying to eke out an existence in this corner of the third world. And that's that thought that kills Tony with his next move.

_"What do you think the rebels would do when they find out you helped us, Mr. Ramos?"_ Tony asks.

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches how quickly Nick swivels his head to look over. The gape of his mouth before his eyebrows rise with admiration. Then, Nick snaps his gaze back to Emilio in the show of a united front against their suspect.

Sometimes, Tony learned from Gibbs years ago, the most terrifying thing isn't the gun holstered on your belt, but the threat of what _could_ happen next. From the fear of death row to dying in prison, it's what drives suspects to confess before their lawyers arrive. Causes ordinary people to make kneejerk reactions. Causes Gibbs and Tim to run straight into a trap. They would rather deal with what was in front of them with incomplete information rather than wait for the unknown.

Emilio wears the expression of a condemned man. _"If I bring Griselda, they will kill us both."_

_"And if we let it slip that you told us everything..."_ Tony doesn't finish the thought.

Emilio buries his face in his hands.

Tony holds his hands out as a show of good faith. _"If you help me, I can keep you safe."_

_"How?"_

_"We can help you get into my country,"_ Tony says _. "Or I can give you money. Lots of it. Enough to move to the city. Somewhere far away from here and the rebels."_

Hope grows like flowers in Emilio's eyes. Tony lies well enough that even he almost believes them. Sure, he can throw all the cash in his bank account at this man and his wife. Hell, here the meager sum would let the family live like kings, but it doesn't feel like it would ever be enough. He doubts the Ramos family will ever be safe again.

Nick adds his two cents. _"It's the only way."_

Emilio nods quickly. _"I get her. I bring Griselda."_

Before Nick or Tony have a chance to react, Emilio goes, tripping and rushing, though a door that leads to the back of the bar.

Nick turns to Tony. "You know we can't promise them asylum. We don't have – "

"I know." Tony half-nods. "Sometimes, you need to tell them what they want to hear. It's Gibbs 101."

"McGee once said you could be as ruthless as Gibbs if you needed to be." Nick shakes his head. "But _damn,_ I wasn't expecting this. You're channeling a Bond villain right now."

"As long as it's Octopussy, I'm good." Then Tony turns serious: "Remember Gibbs' Golden Rule."

Nick flicks his tongue between his teeth. "Which one is that?"

"The one that doesn't need a number."

Nick opens his mouth. Closes it. Hems and haws while he shifts his weight like he is running through the rules. Rubs the back of his neck. When he puts his hands in his pockets, Tony understands Nick hasn't learned the one that says you do whatever you need to for family.

_They were mine before Tali. I hope Nick learns that someday._

When there is movement at the door behind the bar, Tony's hand hovers over his sidearm. Nick copies the motion, ready to for action.

To Tony's surprise, Emilio returns not with the rebels, but with a woman he assumes to be Griselda. She is built like an apple, short and stout and round all over. Her greasy, jet black hair is tinged with grey at the temples. Her clothes are a regional costume, complete with vibrant colors and blazing patterns, but there is no joy in her face. Her eyes are dead, accustomed to looking without seeing. At the sight of Nick and Tony, the fire returns.

_"You bring me here to talk to them?"_ she yells, smacking her husband's back.

Emilio ducks behind his arms. _"They promised to help us."_

_"You will get us killed, you stupid, stupid man."_

When Tony clears his throat, she stops wailing on her husband long enough to hawk a lugey in their direction. It nearly hits Nick, but ends up going wide.

_"I want to know what you told my friend,"_ Tony says.

_"The tall one with the green eyes?"_

Tony nods.

_"I asked him what he planned to do when the rebels caught up with him. I guess he didn't listen. Or – "_ Griselda's smile is vicious _" – he didn't understand."_

_"Did you tell the rebels where to find my friends?"_ Tony presses.

Griselda doesn't speak.

Emilio turns to her, gaping at his wife like she is suddenly a stranger. _"What did you do? How could you help the rebels take the Americans after all they've done to us_?"

_"The Americans needed to learn a lesson,"_ she says, her tone dripping with hate.

_"You sacrificed them,"_ Emilio continues.

_"So what?"_

Emilio swallows hard.

_"Where were the Americans and the helicopters when the rebels took Manziel? Why is the pastor's son more important than ours? Why did no one help us?"_

Emilio just looks away.

_"They acted like we meant nothing, so those two go what they deserved."_ She hawks another lugey that lands on Nick's shoe. _"You should have been with them, you American bastard."_

_"It's your fault!"_ Nick yells, starting to rush forward.

Tony grabs his arms to hold him back. When Nick jerks against him, Tony doubles down on his grip. Griselda watches them, grinning as though she delighted from someone suffering like her.

Turning towards Tony and Nick, Emilio sets his jaw. _"The rebels take important prisoners to their camp up the mountain. I am sorry, but I do not know what happens to them there. It is not necessary that you help us. Everything is our fault."_

Tony nods. _"Thank you. Trust that I will do what I can."_

And that's the moment, life explodes back into Griselda with a ferocity unmatched by the jungle animals. She pounces on her husband.

_"The rebels will kill him! They'll kill our son!"_

Emilio holds his arms above his head. _"You don't even know if he's still our son! It's been five years!"_

_"They'll kill him!_ " She claws at his shirt, his skin. _"It's your fault."_

It takes Tony and Nick to hold her back, but she strains against their hold. She is ready to rip her husband apart with her bare hands and beat him to death with his own limbs. She buries her head into Tony's chest. Her body shrieks with sobs, trembling and quivering.

_"They'll kill him. They'll kill him."_

_"Who?"_

_"My baby. My Manzo."_

_-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-_

The rebels come at daybreak. One cuts the ropes binding Tim and Gibbs while the other keeps an assault rifle ready. Just in case they're brave—or stupid—enough to try anything. Despite the men who trained him, Tim is neither of those things. He prefers vigilance and timing to Gibbs' brute force and rashness.

Manzo stands by the rebels, his eyes downcast. He holds out the agents' breakfast. It's tan and mushy, about the size of Tim's fist, wrapped in a wilted banana leaf. Even though they've eaten the same thing for the last day and a half, Tim has no idea what the hell it is. And, he doesn't care.

"Save some, McGee," Gibbs warns.

It's the most Gibbs had talked since they were taken. Yesterday, he had nothing to say. Tim tried to come up with something, but he never could fill hours of time with idle chatter like Tony. After a while, he turned to dreaming about Delilah's beautiful smile and every single one of their child's milestones. First word. First steps. First computer. Birthdays. Temper tantrums and smiles. Snuggles, fears and tears. Everything he would never get a chance to see. By the end, Tim's heart ached. And maybe it was better that way. Gibbs seemed to prefer the silence, so he could watch the rebel's motions.

"Eat," Manzo says.

Gibbs eats a small bite of his breakfast before tucking the rest away. Tim scarfs the darned whole thing because it's delicious and it's edible and…he's _starving._ They drink the water that Manzo brings in canteens. Thankfully, that's plentiful here. Even if food isn't.

Then, the rebels motion for the agents to follow.

"Where are we going?" Gibbs demands.

Even though he could easily be conversing in Spanish, Gibbs tries to keep everything in English. Tim thinks it's mostly for his benefit, so he knows what the hell is going on. Because it's the not knowing, the not understanding what is going on that freaks him out more than staring down the barrel of a gun.

Manzo wrings his hands. "You eat. You work. Like us."

"Okay," Tim says, nodding and hoping it's not more than that.

And with that, they leave their tiny hut.

Despite the hour, the jungle is already teeming with life. It's that awkward moment between day and night when the moon isn't quite ready to surrender the sky. The dark purples of night are beginning to go pink and orange at the edges like a painter swirled the colors together on an artist's palette. White mist blossoms up from between the trees like one of Abby's dry ice experiments. Creatures howl and bark and scream as though night will never return.

A chill slithers down Tim's spine. He squares his shoulders, determined to hold his head high no matter what they face.

Tim and Gibbs hike, two rebels in the lead, two rebels behind with Manzo at their side. They head up the mountainside. The incline leaves Tim holding on to trees as they go to keep him from tumbling back down to Earth.

"What's the plan, boss?" Tim whispers.

Gibbs presses his lips together. "We wait."

"For what, boss? We should – "

"We get one chance, Tim." He holds his index finger up for emphasis. "Gotta make it count."

Tim clamps his mouth shut. He focuses on the wet ground beneath his feet, the fat leafed plants licking at his ankles, the air thick with the promise of even more rain. The jungle stretches from one edge of the Earth to the other, from the tips of the mountain tops to where they kiss the sky.

_If Tony were here, I bet he would call me McTarzan._

The thought of his old friend, his old life, makes him smile for a moment. As they hike, Tim wonders about many things. Meaningful things. Trivial things. Whether Delilah's morning sickness returned. Whether Tony actually enjoy Paris and Interpol as much as he says. How big Delilah's belly is getting. How the team is doing without him and Gibbs. Whether Delilah is even awake right now. He always loved the way her hair frames her face when she sleeps.

_Does she even know yet?_

Whether she'll be able to be happy without him. How long it'll take her to move on after –

He can't bring himself to finish the thought.

When the rebels reach a small clearing, they gesture towards several patches of dead earth. At the edges, there are crude crosses fashioned out of branches and jungle twine. Piles of rusted shovels are piled at the far edge of the clearing.

Manzo gestures at them. "Dig. We help."

Tim inhales sharply. Gibb clutches his shoulder.

"Rule 47," he whispers.

_Only jump if you can see the bottom._

"We need to wait, Tim."

When Tim glances at his boss, Gibbs' eyes implore him to trust him. To just let everything play out the way that it's supposed to. Playing the good senior agent, Tim follows Gibbs' lead. He gets into formation with him and Manzo at one end with Gibbs at the other. Three rebels help with another patch of earth while the fourth keeps a watchful eye on them as they work _._

_Delilah, I'm sorry._

The earth is soft and heavy from last night's rain.

_I didn't know how lucky we are._

It tumbles from Tim's shovel, bit by bit, forcing him to drive it deeper into the ground.

_If I could do it all again, I never would have left you._

His muscles strain from the effort. The jungle air threatens to drown him.

_Either of you._

He digs a grave.


	5. Chapter 5

By the time they are done, Tim and Gibbs finish two holes. Side by side. Waist deep. Tim has cleared enough shallow graves to recognize one.

He pitches his shovel into the damp ground. Then, he leans back against the dirt wall. He stamps his foot on a loose patch of earth, packing it flatter. A gentle breeze makes the surrounding grass bow to its mercy before it tousles Tim's sweat slicked hair. The blazing sun plays peekaboo with the forest canopy. Birds scream and sing, celebrating another day in paradise. And maybe, there are those who might consider this place a type of utopia. Hell, maybe even those would call it Shangri-La.

Sure, it's quiet here. Peaceful, even.

In this jungle graveyard on the edge of the world.

It might not be the worst place for his tenure as an agent—his story—to end. Laying down his life to save a trio of young boys, who should be worrying about toys and not weapons, is a noble and fitting end. And Tim would never regret the choice. If it were just him.

No, he doesn't even regret following Gibbs straight into the hell mouth because it's the way his father—and his boss—molded him. To always be ready to surrender himself for cause and country.

The only thing that he regrets is that he'll never meet that little piece of him still in Washington, safe and sound in his wife's belly.

Tim chases the wet dirt from his wedding band. Under the sunlight, the gold gleams like a raging wildfire. Untouched and untainted, brand new and barely used. It is the only part of him that doesn't stay covered in filth and mud and mire.

_We're coming home, Delilah._

The only part of him that can't be destroyed by his choices.

_I promise._

Out of the corner of his eye, Tim catches Manzo studying him. The boy stands with one hand propped on his shovel, the other on his hip. Sweat drips down his face, further staining his already soaked shirt.

Tilting his head, Manzo jerks his chin at the hole. "Not you, Tim. Not you."

"Then who is it for?" Tim asks.

Manzo's brow furrows. "I no understand."

"Why are we digging here?" When the furrow deepens, Tim sighs. Makes a face. Tries again. "What happened? Did someone die?"

Manzo gestures to the graves before holding up two fingers. "Alejandro mad. Bad things."

And Tim takes that to mean that a pair of rebels pissed off Alejandro enough to earn a dirt nap.

"What did they do?" Tim asks.

Manzo checks on the other rebels. Two are engaged in an animated conversation while the other two help Gibbs finish his hole. While they worked under the blazing sun, Gibbs slowed considerably. Even though Tim kept an eye on him, there wasn't much he could do to help. Right now, Tim isn't sure whether his boss is flagging from age and the raging heat or it's a calculated move to make the rebels think that he is nothing more than a harmless old man.

_I really hope it's that._

Manzo clears his throat. "Want…" His expression turns perplexed as he rolls his middle and index finger against his thumb. "Dinero?"

"Money?" Tim suggests.

"Moe-nay." Manzo sounds out as he nods emphatically. "You and Gibbs. Moe-nay."

Tim's heart drops straight into his stomach.

_Someone tried to sell us._

Manzo continues. "Mucho. Want lots."

Tim's knees go weak. When he sags against the edge of the grave, his shoes slip in the damp earth and he ends up flat on his butt. His pulse pounds in his ears. Cold sweat licks at along his back. Tendrils of panic work their way through him, slicing through his soul like a knife.

He never considered that the rebels would try to sell him. Ransom him back to the US, sure. But _sold_ to some other rebel—or worse yet, a terrorist—group never crossed his mind. How can there be a worse fate than ending up in a shallow grave?

_Fuck._

In a desperate attempt to keep himself from panicking, Tim drives his fingers into the earth. He pulls in a breath, holds it for the count of ten before doing it all over again.

His breathing turns ragged.

Looming over him, Manzo's outline is black against the clear blue sky. He can't make out the boy's face.

"You okay, Tim?" Manzo's disembodied voice asks.

_They are going to sell me and Gibbs to the highest bidder. We'll end up in one of those terrorist videos._

Tim struggles to pull a breath.

_Fuck._

And another.

"Who?" Tim manages to choke out. "Who did they try to sell us to?"

"No know. It make Alejandro mad." He holds a finger to his head in a gun motion. "Dead."

Tim scrubs his hand across the back of his sunburned neck. The pain on the raw skin makes him wince, but it brings him back to reality. He bites the inside of his cheek. He keeps the terror in check, just enough for it to simmer below the surface. Enough to help him focus.

_Gibbs and I need to get out of here. Now._

Manzo crouches in front of Tim. Clutching his right side, the boy grimaces and groans. He grits his teeth.

Tim blinks. "Are you hurt, Manzo?"

When the boy doesn't speak, Tim leans forward to lift his shirt. Manzo doesn't fight, just moves his arm to expose his ribs that are jet black with bruises. His chest rises and falls as though each breath takes too much effort.

Tim exhales. "Shit. That's bad."

"Alejandro mad." Manzo crooks a smile. "I give food. Too much."

"Thank you," is all Tim can think to say.

Manzo just shrugs.

"I'll help you," Tim says. "If I get the chance."

The boy's smile turns gloomy like he doesn't believe Tim. Or expect him to live long enough to repay the favors. That sends Tim's stomach churning.

Before they have a chance to speak again, a loud shout carries from deeper in the woods. Manzo straightens up like a live wire shocked him. He goes, tripping and stumbling, out of the grave. Then he turns back to help Tim, who climbs out on his own.

In the grave next to them, Tim watches two rebels drag Gibbs out. He is unsteady on his feet, swaying and weaving. Something doesn't seem right about the way Gibbs moves. His motions are jerky and unstable. His eyes are half-glazed over. And worse yet, he lets two—what he would call dirt bags—teenagers manhandle him out of the space when he could do it on his own.

_G-d, I hope it's just caffeine withdrawal._

The rebels grab Gibbs' arms to march him to the edge of the clearing. Tim bolts after them.

"Hey! Leave him alone!" he yells.

When Tim rushes towards them, two other rebels intercept him. They catch Tim around the waist, forcing him face-first onto the ground. Tim earns a mouthful of dirt. But still, he keeps fighting.

"Boss!" he yelps.

The rebels tie Tim's arms behind his back before they wrench him to his feet. He struggles, fights with everything he has. They unceremoniously dump him onto the ground beside his boss.

Gibbs is motionless. Still. _Too still._

"Boss," Tim whispers. "Boss."

Gibbs gives a ragged, bone-jarring cough. It's enough to turn Tim's stomach, send that panic creeping after him again like a predator in the night. Then, Gibbs hazards a slit-eyed glance back to the rebel group, who is too preoccupied with the newcomers to bother with their captives.

Tim taps Gibbs's side with his leg. "Boss? Are you okay? Please, tell me what's – "

" _McGee."_ Gibbs whispers harshly.

Tim instantly quiets. He keeps his eyes fixed on the rebel group to avoid looking at Gibbs. Ten rebels carry two bodies on gurneys made out of branches and leaves. Tim recognizes one of them as the boy who tried to steal his wedding ring. He bites his lower lip, looks away.

Gibbs coughs again before he whispers: "I need you to play along. Got it?"

Tim barely nods. "When do we run?"

"We don't."

Tim blinks. _"What?"_

"It's twenty-five clicks back to town. Too far. We wouldn't make it." He sighs. "I've seen sixty soldiers."

"Which means there are probably more than that."

When Gibbs doesn't speak, that sinking feeling returns to Tim's gut. Fuck.

"Then how do we get out of here?" Tim asks.

Groaning, Gibbs rolls onto his side towards Tim. Even though none of the rebels bother to look over, Tim keeps up appearances by pretending to check him over. When he meets Tim's eyes, Gibbs' gaze is surprisingly clear and earnest.

"Be sick enough to get the Red Cross involved," he explains. "They take me. You sneak out with them."

Tim swallows hard. "Don't they have doctors here?"

"Only field medics."

"Do we have a back-up plan?"

Gibbs hitches a nod. "Wait for the SEALs."

Tim presses his lips together. "Vance said we were on our own. No rescue."

Gibbs genuinely laughs. "What Vance does and says are different things, Tim."

_-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-_

Back at the SEALs' makeshift headquarters, Tony sits quietly at a fold-up table. He drums his fingers against the side of a mug. Even though the coffee went cold hours ago, he still sips the beverage occasionally. He wonders whether Gibbs would enjoy it because it's as black as road tar and just as appetizing. Even all the sugar and nondairy creamer in the SEALs' rations can't overpower the flavor.

Screwing his face up, he pushes it away. Maybe it's the fact that the coffee in those Parisian cafes spoiled him for life. Or maybe, it's that he is busy thinking about how his boss takes his coffee, instead of what Gibbs—and Tim—are going through.

_I'd rather not think about that…_

Tony leans his elbows on the table. Steeples his hands against the bridge of his nose. Works his fingers against his eyelids in a desperate attempt to chase the exhaustion away.

His eyes skirt back to the empty cot with the tangled sleeping bag and rumpled pillow. Tony to rest when he and Nick brought the Ramoses back to the headquarters. But sleep kept herself at arm's length, taunting and teasing him every damned time he thought he would drift away.

On the adjacent cot, Nick snores raggedly as he rolls over.

Tony levels a Gibbs-worthy glare.

_How can he sleep at a time like this?_

He checks his watch. Sighs. Clear on the other side of the world, Tali should be curled up in her bed. Hands clasped around that baby pink, stuffed bunny that Tim and Delilah just sent. Her tender curls splayed out on the pillow in a halo. Just like Ziva's always did.

_She was the only one I couldn't save._

Tony's heart clenches.

_Which is why I have to save them._

He jumps to his feet to pace around the tight enclosure. He puts both hands on the back of his neck, rubs the flesh straight down to the bone. Rolls his tongue around the sides of his cheeks. He should be anywhere other than here.

It's just him and Nick holding down the fort. Some of the SEALs are on a scouting mission to check out Grange's rebel village while the others are interviewing Emilio and Griselda Ramos. They have been talking for _hours._

Suddenly, someone clears their throat.

Tony nearly leaps out of his skin. He turns around, one hand on his neck and smiling awkwardly.

Jeremiah Grange stands a few feet away. Behind him are several of the SEALs. The two, who were napping when he arrived, Tony learned are named: Colby Ashwood and Jason Miller. Hanging even further back, Dean leans against the wall and watches the scene intently. They must have been standing there a lot longer than Tony originally thought.

"I'm surprised you're awake, DiNozzo," Grange says.

Tony smiles thinly. "I couldn't sleep."

"Might not be the Four Seasons, but – " Grange nods at the cot "—they're the best we've got."

Tony shakes his head. "It's not that. It's just…"

When his voice trails off, Grange gives an understanding nod. "You should try. We've got a sneak and peek at first light."

Tony blinks. "I thought we were waiting on the other platoon before we moved in."

"Change of plans, DiNozzo. The first team just radioed back. Lotsa rebels, but the wrong village. The Ramos' intel leads us to believe Gibbs and McGee are being held at a base up the mountain." He gestures to the area of the map where Tony pointed earlier. "Looks like they're 20 clicks away. Give or take a few."

"And the sneak and peek?"

Grange's light eyes burn with the annoyance. "Damned rebels have 3 bases up there. We need something to do while the others take their sweet ass time getting here."

All three of the SEALs snort and chuckle, but Tony doesn't laugh.

"If you aren't going to sleep, you might as well get acquainted with your gear," Grange says, waving Tony towards their equipment.

Before he has a chance to say anything, Ashwood steps forward. He looks as Nebraskan as his slow, drawing accent sounds. Tall and baby face, he manages to appear lanky even with the set of rippling muscles. His crown of buzzed, golden hair makes him resemble like a corncob left in the sun too long.

He gives Grange the side-eye. "Sir."

Suddenly, Miller decides now is the perfect time to dive into Tony's vacated cot. He throws his short and tanned body into the space. As soon as his black-haired head hits the pillow, he is snoring.

Grange rolls his eyes like he is far too used to this. "Get it over with, Husker."

Even though Ashwood drops his voice, Tony still hears it. "With all due respect, Ranger. Are you really letting a sand crab and a narc tag along?"

Setting his jaw, Grange turn back to Ashwood. The younger man's face turns panicked. "You're damned right I am. I'm not about to let some idiot screw the pooch."

_I wonder whether that idiot is Gibbs or Ashwood._

Ashwood stares at the floor until Grange snaps, "You're dismissed."

He scuttles back towards a laptop for more reconnaissance work. Dean joins him.

After that, Grange turns back to Tony. "Let's get you geared up, DiNozzo."

Tony chokes a laugh. "Are you really taking me and Torres?"

"It's all hands on deck." He shoots a glance back to Dean and cringes before continuing: "Did you expect something different?"

Tony opens his mouth. Snaps it closed. Tries again. Presses his hand to his face. Of course, he _knew_ he was supposed to go to the SEALs, but he didn't actually _believe_ it would happen. Fuck, he doesn't even know what he expected anymore.

After all, he is older than all of them. Pushing forty—okay, so it _might_ be his fifth foray into forty. But who's counting? He is in the worst shape of his life, thanks to far too many croissants, pastries, and baguettes. Instead of banking hours at the gym, he attends tea parties and ballet recitals. He is nothing more than a single dad who needs to get home to his little girl.

_Hell, I don't even remember the last time I fired a gun at a suspect._

"If you want to hang back, I get it. I was briefed about your – " Grange considers his word " – situation."

Pressing his lips together, Tony glances back at the pictures of Tim and Gibbs. If the situations were reversed, they would drop everything and rush to help him. It only seemed fair that Tony return the favor. They were the closest thing he ever had to a real family. And even though he doesn't visit like he should or call as often as he does, they are a huge part of his life.

Tony shakes his head. "What are packing?"

Grange's nod is one of respect. Then, he leads Tony to the wall where the gun lockers are stored. He stoops to retrieve a backpack, some fatigues, and a set of boots before opening a locker.

"Pick your poison, DiNozzo," he says.

Inside the locker is a small arsenal. Assault rifles, submachine guns, and handguns. Tony knows the specifics—weights and measurements and reload times and magazine sizes—of each one. He spent far too much time last summer making a PowerPoint presentation for his Interpol class on the Pros and Cons of each. He chooses the SEAL team's standard issue submachine gun.

Grange nods. "Colt – "

"M4A1 5.56 NATO," Tony interjects, grinning broadly. "I know. This one's got the SOPMOD accessory kit. Got any rocket launchers in there?"

"Not today." Grange guffaws. "Who do you think you are? James Bond?"

Tony half-smiles.

"You know your shit, DiNozzo."

"I hope I do." He shrugs flippantly. "Those who can't do, teach."

"Nice try, DiNozzo. You forgot the other possibility."

Tony's eyebrows rise.

"Like my old man used to say, those who already _did,_ teach _."_ Grange grips his shoulder. "It's not a bad way to spend retirement, DiNozzo."

Tony runs his hand through his hair. "If you can call it that."

With a laugh, Grange ends the closest thing that they'll ever have to a Kumbaya, hug fest. He opens the backpack to display the contents. "Familiarize yourself with it."

Tony glances towards the door. "I think I need to clear my head first."

"Remember it's boots on the ground at 0430." Grange holds Tony's gaze. "With or without you."

Without an ounce of hesitation, Tony says: "This sand crab is coming."

Grange guffaws again. "Don't mind Husker. He gets a might touchy with civilians."

"Yeah, I did too." Tony half-smiles. "They think they know everything."

"Damn right." After a curt nod, Grange leaves Tony alone.

Tony figures some fresh air will help him clear his head. If he can just get the thoughts—the ones where they're wrong about where Tim and Gibbs are or worse, they're already dead—to stop, he might catch a few hours of sleep. That should be enough to make him feel like a new man. Like the man he used to be back at NCIS: the suave and debonair super-agent. Not the chronically overtired, Barbie-doll wielding single dad with the great apartment overlooking the Seine.

He lingers by the gun locker for a long time before choosing one. The SEALs brought a few Glocks and Sig Sauers. For a split second, Tony _almost_ chooses a Glock because that's what Interpol issues him at the range. Ultimately, he scoops up a Sig Sauer. It's the same weapon he carried at NCIS, except this one doesn't have the scrape on the barrel from that time a suspect tried to throw him off a parking garage.

_And I held on long enough for McGee to get there._

He turns it over in his hands. The weight is familiar and foreign like crash landing with a former lover.

_Hopefully, he can hold on long enough for me to return the favor._

Sighing, Tony tucks the weapon into the back of his khakis. The cold metal pressed against the small of his back comes as a relief when he steps out into the daylight. Even though the sun sneaks lower to the horizon—late afternoon, Tony believes—the heat only digs its claws in deeper.

He strolls across the village square in the direction of the cantina. When he starts towards the church, the hair on the back of his neck rises. He hazards a glance over his shoulder to find a tall, burly man in dust-covered fatigues. His features are young and hardened like someone who took a wrong turn in life.

_Or a child soldier all grown up._

Tony makes a face.

Could the man be a student of Gibbs' Rule 27—There are two ways to follow someone. First way, they never notice you. Second way, they only notice you—or just be a shitty tail? Either way, it doesn't really matter because _someone is following him._

_It's good to know the rebels think I'm an easy target._

Tony rolls his eyes, tired of everyone constantly underestimating him.

_But this dirt bag might know where Gibbs and McGee are._

Deciding it is time to turn the tables, Tony makes a show of checking out the church spire. Then he takes a hard left down the isolated alley that leads to the church entrance. In the reflection of a stained-glass window, Tony watch the man check to ensure there are no witnesses before he follows.

Tony barely contains his smile. His right hand lingers on the knife that's sheathed on his hip. The same knife Gibbs gave him when he joined the team out of Baltimore. To use it now, only seems fitting.

When the man grabs him, Tony retaliates with an intensity he hasn't known in years.


	6. Chapter 6

In every movie Tony ever watched—just pick a _Rocky_ sequel—an old fighter falls back into his training like an elderly dancer returning for a final waltz. There is a certain grace in their movements, poetic and choregraphed and perfect. Bodies unable to forget what they were built to do.

Tony learns that reality is nothing like Hollywood portrays. Returning to hand-to-hand combat is a lot like falling up the stairs: clumsy and awkward. His body's instincts kick in at the very last instant.

_I'm just_ _a small-time guy with big-time guts who yearns to be a hero. Just once._

The rebel grabs Tony from behind. One arm goes to pin Tony's hands at his sides while the other brings a knife towards his throat. The blade glints and gleams in the afternoon sunlight.

Tony holds his breath.

As soon as the rebel's hand grazes Tony's side, he throws his body forward. The move knocks the rebel off kilter. Sends him stumbling into Tony's back.

Tony grabs the rebel's arm, but he slithers out of the grasp. Spinning around, Tony unsheathes his knife. He doesn't get it out in time. The rebel punches Tony in the face. Tony's head snaps back, momentarily stunning him. He manages to stay upright, stay on his feet. His vision unblurs just in time to see the rebel's knife coming right for him. Tony backpedals, tripping over his boots and trash.

He just needs a minute to get settled in his stance. Just needs to get the right distance away to use those Krav Magna movies that Ziva taught him. Just needs a minute to get a good grip on his knife.

Tony gets his knife free.

The rebel roundhouse kicks Tony in the ribs. He doubles over, but recovers quickly. Tony retaliates with a punch that lands on the rebel's face. He doesn't even flinch. The rebel kicks Tony again and he goes down, landing in the dirt with a _thud_. Tony's knife goes flying into a pile of trash.

Tony lays still. Pretends to unconscious.

Snorting, the rebel spits a blood-soaked lugey by Tony's face. _"Damned American bastard."_

When he winds up for another kick, Tony lashes grabs the rebel's leg. Then, he swings his legs into the rebel's knee. The rebel crashes onto Tony with a loud _oof._ The man's massive weight nearly crushes Tony. He is more solid than he looks, all muscle.

The knife lands by Tony's hand. They both scramble for it, but Tony reaches it first. After scooping it up, Tony forces himself to his feet. The world pitches dangerously sideways, wavy and hazy at the edges. The rebel appears in his sight line. He bares a smile with blood streaked teeth. He is ready to rip Tony apart with his bare hands, if necessary. His eyes are as black as the depths of hell and just as empty.

_Getting caught won't do Gibbs and McGee any good._

Tony smirks. "You're gonna eat lightning and you're gonna crap thunder."

The rebel's brow furrows. _"What?"_

The distraction is enough for Tony to get the drop on the him. Tony shoves him against the nearest wall and jams the knife against the rebel's sunburned throat. Fear licks like fire in the rebel's eyes before he schools it away. He appears to be near Nick's age, but Tony suspects the rebel is younger. Way younger. His features likely hardened by the daily life of gun running and jungle living.

When the rebel surges up, Tony presses the blade deeper against his neck. The rebel closes his eyes. He swallows hard to make the blade dances against his Adam's apple. The rebel murmurs a prayer. Even though he can't remember the last time he attended mass, Tony recognizes the Lord's Prayer. He barely suppresses a strangled laugh. Funny how those who live their lives away from G-d find Him in that moment they're about to die like it would do any good.

_"What's your name?"_ Tony asks.

_"Chale,"_ the rebel sputters.

_"Nice to meet you, Chale. I'm That Damned American Bastard, but most people call me Tony."_ When Chale laughs anxiously, Tony stares him down. Chale goes quiet. _"Now, that's out of the way. You're going to tell me what I want to know."_

_"Whatever you want."_ Chale nods as best he can. _"Whatever you need."_

_"Why did you attack me?"_

_"Money. You are worth lots to your government."_ Sweat pricks to Chale's forehead as his eyes go wide. " _My mother is sick. Real sick. She needs medicine."_

_"Your pants are on fire,"_ Tony quips.

Chale tries to glance down. _"What? I don't understand."_

_"Don't lie to me."_

_"I didn't."_ Chale's face pales as he shrinks back. _"I wouldn't. Not to someone who could kill me."_

_"You haven't seen your mother in years."_ When Chale looks away, Tony's eyebrows creep up. _"How long has she been dead?"_

The silence hangs between them for what feels like a long time. Underneath Tony's grasp, Chale's body trembles. For a moment, Tony thinks he might try another attack…until he notices the tears mixing with the sweat running down Chale's cheeks. Even after all his time away from interrogating suspects, Tony still knows how to spot a big, fat liar and learn how good—or in Chale's case, how shitty—their poker face is. Despite what Gibbs used to say about getting straight to the heart of the interrogation, asking roundabout questions worked for Tony just as well as the glare did for his former boss.

Chale wilts under Tony's watchful eye. _"Twenty years."_

Bingo. _"See? Was that so hard?"_

Chale's expression turns morose.

_"Where are my friends?"_ Tony asks.

He pulls a face. _"What friends?"_

_"You are a terrible liar."_ When Tony digs the blade a little deeper into Chale's neck, he closes his eyes. Tony shakes him until he opens them. Just for show, Tony flashes a terrifying smile. _"Let's try that again. Where in the hell are my friends?"_

_"Friends?"_ Chale rolls the word over his tongue like it's acid. _"Who are your friends?"_

Tony chuckles humorlessly. Licks at the blood dripping onto his upper lip. _"The two Americans who went missing recently."_

Chale juts out his chin defiantly. _"I don't know who you're talking about."_

_"Older guy with grey hair. Likes to glare a lot._ " Setting his jaw, Tony doubles down on his grip. _"Younger guy with brown hair. Looks like he'd be more at home behind a computer."_

Chale gives a one-shouldered shrug. _"Haven't seen them."_

_"And I'm James Bond."_

_"You look nothing like Roger Moore,"_ Chale deadpans.

Desperate to keep from beating Chale into a coma, Tony grits his teeth. Works his fingers tighter into the hold on Chale's shirt. Readjusts his grip on the knife. Takes a deep breath.

He doesn't have time for this. Tim and Gibbs don't have time for this.

And really? Who the fuck thinks Roger Moore is an acceptable James Bond? Anyone in their right mind _knows_ Sean Connery is the only actor who could bring James Bond to life.

And for a split second, it's like Tony is out of his body, hovering above the alley and watching himself on a movie screen. He slams Chale's back against the wall. He presses the blade down until it just breaks Chale's skin. Tendrils of blood blossom up to run down Chale's neck.

_"This is the last time I ask,"_ Tony hears himself growl. _"Where are my friends?"_

_"In the camp near the top of the mountain."_ Chale's eyes grow huge. _"I could take you."_

For a long time, Tony studies Chale's terrified face. Raw fear dances in his eyes like he understands what Tony might be capable of…even if Tony himself doesn't realize it. While it might not be truth, Chale isn't lying. When he eases back, Chale relaxes in Tony's grasp. He slumps against the wall, breathing hard.

Without giving Chale time to recover, Tony hauls the rebel off the wall. He keeps the knife pointed at Chale's jugular and a steady hand on his upper arm. Just in case he's stupid enough to run. The march back to the SEALs' headquarters is quick, but Tony holds his breath for every step. By the time they're back, he isn't sure he remembers how to breathe.

After urging Chale inside, Tony isn't surprised to see the SEALs hard at work. Ashwood and Dean are at the computers while Grange helps Nick root through their ammo lockers. Miller is still passed out on one of the cots, his roaring snores cutting through the tense air.

Tony clears his throat.

When they glance up, Ashwood and Dean share a surprised look. Grange's eyebrows jump and his mouth pulls into a tight 'o.' Nick just crosses his arms and makes a face.

Grange presses his head to his temple. "Does trouble find you, DiNozzo? Or do you go looking for it?"

"I'd like to think a little of both." Tony smirks. Then he jerks his head at Chale. "My new friend here says he might know where Gibbs and McGee are. I figured you'd like to talk to him."

Grange goes to speak, but Ashwood interrupts him. "With all due respect, Ranger. You might be HMFIC, but if DiNozzo wants to play heat shield, let him."

Tony tilts his head. "So I'm not a sand crab anymore?"

As he takes the prisoner from Tony, respect flashes in Ashwood's eyes. "Not right now."

And with that, Ashwood leads Chale to wherever the SEALs are keeping their prisoners or witnesses or whatever the hell they were calling them right now. Barely a second later, Dean follows them.

"But I'm still a narc?!" Nick calls after them.

"Until you turn in your badge," Grange replies.

"Great," Nick says, scowling.

"Would you rather Husker call you a pollywog?"

Nick blinks. "A _what_?"

"A pollywog."

When confusion settles on Nick's features, Tony translates: "It's a baby frog. Like a tadpole."

"I think a narc might be better." Nick's nose wrinkles in disgust until he notices Tony's face. Then he continues with his voice bordering dangerously near a whine: "Damn, man. How did I miss the action?"

Oh yeah, he just got into that fight. Somehow, Tony managed to forget. When he presses his fingers to his cheeks, he winces when he touches his right eye. The flesh is pillowy and buoyant, the skin taunt and tight. He hasn't had a black eye in ages. His lower lip is split and cracked. The blood caked underneath his nose forces him to breathe through his mouth.

_What would Tali think of me?_

"You realize that a heat shield isn't much better than a sand crab, right?" Grange's question comes out more as a statement.

Tony's grin pulls his lip open. "I've been called worse."

_Blabbermouth. Skirt chaser. Bully. Doormat._

"Much worse," Tony says quietly.

After a knowing nod, Grange passes Tony a pack of wet wipes. With a thank you, Tony gets to work. He rubs the blood off his face as best he can without wincing. Because wincing and flinching is exactly how you show a bunch of SEALs how tough you are. When Tony thinks he's done, Nick shakes his head and flicks his thumb underneath his nose. Tony scrubs the blood out of his facial hair.

How Grange keeps his face so smooth here—off the grid with no mirrors allowed in headquarters due to a superstition—is beyond Tony. His own five o'clock shadow transformed into a full-blown beard some time yesterday. At least, he thinks it was yesterday. Not having slept since Paris, everything starts to run together like a commercial-free movie marathon.

He rubs his eyes, desperate to chase the exhaustion away. Because even if he could bring himself to lie down, sleep just won't come for him.

How can he even think about sleep? With Tim and Gibbs lost in the rebels' wilderness and half a world away, Tali waking for the day. What will his father tell her about Tony's absence? Before he hopped on that plane, Tony ruffled her curls and said he had to go help his friends. She looked up with those bright eyes and asked simply: _Just like Ima?_ He smiled, tears in his eyes, and hugged her like he might never get another chance and whispered, "Yes, love. Just like Ima." Because Tali was too young to understand the difference between life and death. To her, Ziva is still waging the war she fought her whole life.

Grange's voice pulls Tony out of his thoughts. "Are you going to take your gear, DiNozzo?"

Tony blinks "What?"

"Your gear."

When the world comes back to focus, Grange and Nick stare at Tony curiously. Nick is elbow deep in the black backpack sitting on the table. Next to it rests an impressive pile of gear, including a body armor plate and its vest, several MREs, and Camelback water holder that looks like a plastic bag with a straw. Grange holds out another backpack and vest with body armor plate.

"Oh yeah." Tony forces a smile. "Thanks."

Grange half-nods. "No going slick on us. Got it?"

"Loud and clear," Tony says.

Nick lifts his chin, works his mouth. "What does 'slick' mean?"

"Ditching the vest," Grange says.

"No way in hell would I do that," Nick says quietly.

With his focus rapidly waning, Tony pokes through the backpack. The contents are _nothing_ like his NCIS go-bag which compromised of a change of clothes—starched white shirt and new underwear—some light reading material, a back-up mag or two, a toothbrush, and candy bars for an unforeseen stakeout.

Instead, the SEAL bag is built to ensure survival in a lonely, unforgiving wilderness. These men are the end of the line and it is reflected in their gear. Kevlar blankets. Water purification tablets. Handcuff key. Fire starter kit. Gerber tool, which is a lot like a Swiss Army knife on steroids. Twin black pieces of fabric.

_Tourniquets. Holy shit._

Grange huffs. "I doubt we'll be needing those."

"I sure hope not," Tony replies.

The preparation work makes Tony's stomach churn. He holds his breath as he continues to riffle through the back. After being away from NCIS, he forgot how much he _hates_ waiting for an op to begin. Watching the clock. Pacing for hours. Counting down the minutes. Feeling the tick of every second.

On the other side of the table, Nick seems almost giddy. Tony used to share that rush of adrenaline, that wash of excitement, that sense of anticipation a long time ago. Maybe he just older—or smarter—because now, he is just apprehensive and anxious. Ready to crawl up the walls.

_We still have almost 12 hours until go time._

Nick looks at Grange. "Where do we meet the helos?"

"No helos this time, Torres," Grange replies. "We're going to hump in."

"Excuse me?" Nick's smile is lascivious. "What are we humping?"

"Hump in," Tony interjects. "As in hike."

That wipes the grin straight off Nick's face. "We are going to hike twenty kilometers?"

"Twenty-three. Unless DiNozzo's new friend tells us otherwise."

"Ah" is all Nick manages.

"Learn your gear," Grange says, smirking. Then to Tony, he suggests: "Get some sleep."

And with that, he strides off in the direction where the SEALs took Chale earlier. Alone, an uneasy silence settles around Nick and Tony. He tries to ignore the nag in his head, itching for sleep and begging for rest. He attempts to smother it with more coffee. Somehow, it's even more disgusting than the first batch he made. And he used all the sugar. He retches into the sip.

Nick holds up an ugly looking, hunting knife. Even though he appears to be eyeing it, he intently stares at Tony instead.

Tony glances over his mug. "Is something on your mind, Nick?"

"You don't have to do this," Nick says as though he treads on air.

Tony sets his jaw. "Actually, I do."

Nick tilts his head. "What are you trying to prove?"

Tony doesn't speak for a long time. Eventually, Nick sighs heavily.

"I tried to tell McGee the same thing." His gaze turns distant as it skirts back to the tactical map. "Is it worth risking your life to play the hero? You have someone waiting for you to come home."

"And so does Tim." Tony nods. "And Gibbs."

This time, Nick remains silent.

"How am I supposed to sit here and let G-d knows what happen to them?" Tony asks.

Nick just shrugs.

"Sometimes, it isn't about the people you love, but the ones you're willing to die for."

Nick's eyebrows rise. "I've never felt that way about anyone."

Tony's smile is pitiful. "Stay on the team long enough and you will."

With their conversation have dipped into oversharing territory, Nick returns to organizing his gear. Tony digs through his, but his heart isn't in it. He is more interested in watching the powdered creamer swirl through his coffee. No matter how much he mixes the drink, it never seems to completely soak up.

He frowns.

"You know," Nick speaks up, "Gibbs once said I reminded him of you."

Looking up, Tony smirks. "I don't think – "

"I took it as a compliment." Nick gives Tony the side eye. "He said you were a great agent and even better man. I'm just glad to be able to see it in person."

And suddenly, the exhaustion sets a pounding behind Tony's eyes. It's as though the world as he knows it is about to come crashing down on him. Part of what sent him hurdling across the Atlantic at the speed of light was what he perceived as his boss' chilly demeanor and frosty reception in the months after he caught that bullet in Iraq. But what if...

_I never thought I meant anything to him._

What if it was all in Tony's imagination? What if those perceived slights were just Tony's way of accepting it was time to move on, rather than Gibbs chucking him out of the nest?

His chest tightens.

His mouth goes as dry as the desert sands and just as uncomfortable. His tongue is fat and swollen, too heavy to form coherent words. He is far too tired to deal with this right now. He pushes to his feet, stumbling to the nearest cot. Behind him, he hears Nick ask, "Did I say something wrong, Tony?"

Tony just crashes headlong onto the cot. He doesn't even get the sleeping bag up before he passes out.

He sleeps so deeply that even his haunting dreams can't find him.


	7. Chapter 7

The hike back to the rebel camp is slow-going, at best. Torture, at worst. Despite the path well-cut through the jungle brush, the terrain is still unyielding. Without the rain forest plants, the constant rain has turned the ground to ashen mud. The _sqwuick sqwuick_ from Tim's boots fill his ears.

To Tim, the trek down the mountain feels a lot like falling from heaven. Like he climbed high enough to kiss the sky and join the clouds, only to be cast back down to Earth.

He uses his free hand to steady himself on the tree trunks as they go. His other hand is wrapped around Gibbs' shoulders to hold him upright. Despite Gibbs' protests— _I'm fine, Tim. Everything is fine—_ his condition continues to deteriorate. His cheeks grow redder. His breaths come in labored gasps. His skin, slick with perspiration, burns like fire under Tim's fingers. His typically clear eyes are unfocused and hazy. He leans against Tim, letting the younger man carry his weight.

Tim looks over. "Boss, are you – "

"Still fine, McGee," Gibbs says, voice straining from the effort.

With a tight nod, Tim drops the question. If he's acting, Tim doubts Gibbs would tell him. Even Tim knows that he is a terrible liar and would blow their cover long before they made it back to camp. And from his few undercover ops, Tim knows that genuine surprise is far better than anything fake. But even though Gibbs is a pro at undercover work, he can't be a good enough actor to feign this type of illness.

_Could he?_

Tim's heart clenches.

_What if he caught something?_

They haven't left each other's sides. They shared the same food, water, sleeping quarters, and air. Ever since they ended up in this jungle prison, they have shared everything.

Tim's mouth goes dry. He works the saliva around, wincing at the scratchiness and effort it takes to get it down. His throat is sore and parched. So incredibly sore. His muscles ache. His head starts to pound. Christ, he hopes he didn't catch it. Whatever the fuck, _it,_ is.

_We might not live long enough to see the Red Cross._

Suddenly, Gibbs looks over. Looks straight through Tim.

"How the hell are ya, DiNozzo?" Gibbs' smile is painful.

"Boss, it's me." That sinking feeling worms its way through Tim's gut. "Tim."

"I know, McGee." Gibbs shoots him a _duh_ look. "Tony is here too."

When Tim follows his boss' gaze, he notices Gibbs talks to a tree. Swallowing hard, Tim tries to get Gibbs moving again before someone notices. Gibbs holds his ground.

"How's Tali?" Gibbs pauses. "Glad to hear that Paris is workin' out, DiNozzo." Another pause leaves Gibbs frowning and shaking his head. "No, the team ain't the same without ya."

When Gibbs continues to converse with the tree, Tim stands stock-still and slack-jawed. He doesn't know what to say, how to respond. His boss is either delirious with fever or is a damned good actor.

_Come on, Boss. Give me a sign that you're acting._

When Tim's hand grazes Gibbs' back, heat radiates in waves.

_Please tell me that you're acting._

Up ahead, one of the rebels turns back. He grabs his friend's arm and both turn to watch the spectacle. Their faces grow concerned as he watches Gibbs tilt his head towards one of the branches and ask whether Tali likes croissants. The rebel approaches to grab Gibbs' chin and stare him directly in the eye. It would be a perfect opportunity for an escape attempt if Gibbs were acting.

Tim's heart drops.

_Oh G-d…_

Manzo draws close enough to touch Tim's arm. When he looks at the boy, Tim's eyes are wild. The air is too thick for Tim to take a proper breath.

"What is going on? What happened to him?" he gasps.

"Mareo de sueño," Manzo says as though it explains everything.

"What? I don't…" Unable to tear his eyes off Gibbs, Tim blinks slowly. "I don't understand."

"I no know say in English." Manzo smiles apologetically. "Alejandro keep medicine. Make us good."

"Will he give it to Gibbs?"

"Yes." The promise is more uncertain than Tim would like.

"What if – "

Manzo points to the rebels up ahead. "We need go. They say so."

At Manzo's urging, they set off. While they move, Gibbs' motions slow further. Manzo slips under Gibbs' other arm, helping as best he can despite being nearly a full foot shorter than Tim and Gibbs. By the time they reach the edge of the village, the sun slips under the top canopy of trees. The early evening's golden rays filter through the leaves. The group stops by the hut where Tim and Gibbs spent their stay. Most of the rebels disperse, but a few remain to keep watch over their captives.

"Best agent I ever trained," Gibbs whispers to himself.

Despite everything, Tim can't help but grin. "Thanks, Boss."

Gibbs looks up, obviously surprised to see Tim. "Not you, McGee. Tony."

Biting his lip, Tim looks away.

"Didn't train you, McGee. DiNozzo did." Gibbs takes a gasping breath. "I supervised. Made sure he didn't go too far. Damned good agents. Both of you." He snaps his head up in a sort of nod. It's enough to send him off- balance, Tim holds him steady. "You're the best agent that I didn't train, Tim."

Tim hitches a nod. "Thanks."

"Shoulda told you sooner." He nods, mostly to himself. "Shoulda told DiNozzo."

Tim chokes up. "Boss…"

Before Gibbs can reply, Alejandro stalks through the crown. He stops in front of them.

Tim squares his shoulders, holds his head up defiantly. As best he can while keeping Gibbs standing.

Up close, Alejandro is older than Tim thought before. An adult playing child soldier like a fucked-up Peter Pan leading around his merry band of Lost Boys. His jet-black hair is slicked back with sweat. His eyes are dead like he lost his soul somewhere in the jungle. A Glock is holstered on his dirt covered jeans. Tim tries to stare anywhere but there. He appraises Tim and Gibbs for a long time.

Alejandro barks an order. Feral and angry.

Tim doesn't understand.

Gibbs' body tenses. "No!"

Tim barely manages to squeak "Boss?" before the rebels drag them apart. Before he even realizes what is going on, Tim is already swinging. He manages to land a few punches before a pair of rebels tackle him to the ground and twist his arms up the middle of his back. Every time he fights back, they jerk his hands a little higher…creeping his shoulders dangerously near dislocating.

"Boss!"

Another pull on his arms. Tim bites back a cry.

"McGee!" Gibbs yells.

Another pair of rebels try to force Gibbs towards their hut. Despite the sickness, Gibbs manages to knock one to the ground. When he gears up for a kick, the other rebel smashes his gun against the back of Gibbs' head. He crashes to the ground, motionless.

"Boss!" Tim yelps, trying to get to his feet.

Resisting again, he ignores the agony burning in his arms. The rebels shove him back to the ground. He lies there, immobile, as he watches the rebels drag Gibbs into their hut.

Then, the rebels lurch Tim to his feet. He jerks his body forward, trying to follow Gibbs. He is desperate to know that his boss is okay. But the rebels guide him, fighting and squirming, in the opposite direction. Tim yells, curses, shouts, any noise he can think of to let Gibbs know that he's still alive, that they haven't put a bullet in his brain. _Yet._

They end up in another hut clear on the other side of the village. Once inside, the rebels bind Tim's wrists and ankles before leaving alone. He struggles against the ropes, but there isn't any give. He fights long after he is worn out. Defeated, he slumps against the wall.

"They try, Tim," someone says suddenly. "Make Gibbs sick no more."

When he notices Manzo in the doorway, Tim glares up at the boy.

"You stay with Gibbs, you sick too."

The statement only deepens Tim's anger. Even though Manzo isn't directly responsible for it, he is _one of them_. And right now, for Tim that is enough. Manzo is part of what just pulled Tim away from Gibbs. Part of what keeps Tim from his wife and child. Part of what keeps him from going home.

Manzo's face falls. "I am sorry."

Tim just looks away.

Manzo slowly sits on the floor by Tim's feet. "I stay. You not alone."

Even though Tim tries his best to ignore him, Manzo still engages with him. After giving up practicing his English, Manzo tells stories in Spanish that Tim has no hope of understanding. Manzo traces their names in the dirt with his index finger, but he never gets the letters quite right. Gradually, the light sneaking through the open door drifts away until the world outside drops into night. Stars peek out from their hiding places. The moon slips into view, taking up most of visible sky.

Tim reminds himself that it's the same moon that hangs over Washington. And as long as he can see it, he still has a chance to make it back to Delilah and the baby.

A chance that is a suicide mission, at best. Certain death, at worst. Since being taken, the obstacles have grown until they are almost insurmountable now. Tim needs to find Gibbs. He needs to keep him safe from the rebels and stable from whatever disease he contracted. Then, they both need to make it down the mountain alive and out of rebel hands. Tim doesn't even know how many miles they are from the nearest Naval substation.

_Can I do all that? Or will I have to die trying?_

Manzo lays on the ground, head propped up on one arm. He stares at some point in the distance. The moon dances in the pools of his dark eyes.

"You want to go home?" he asks.

"More than anything," Tim says, forgetting that he hasn't spoken to Manzo in hours.

Manzo nods sadly. "Me as well, Tim."


	8. Chapter 8

When Tony, Nick, and the SEALs set out, the sun isn't even awake yet. The air is as damp and heavy as damp sponge. Tony doubts wringing it out would make it easier to breathe. The terrain is unyielding, unforgiving, hostile. Even though Grange packed some of Tony's nonessentials—blanket, MREs, back-up mags—into his backpack, the pack still feels as though it weighs a thousand pounds.

Tony's steps are slow as they slog through the mud and muck. Ashwood and Miller clear the path with machetes as they lead the way. Tony, Nick, and Dean take the middle while Grange pulls up the rear. They haven't seen another soul since they left Las Rexachitas, but tension clings to them.

To Tony, it feels a lot like when he would sit at his desk with Gibbs on a war path for a suspect. He doesn't want to even _fucking breathe._

Grange's eyes constantly scan the brush for threats. Miller and Ashwood don't speak either as they push forward. Dean cradles an H&K MP-5SD6 9 mm to his chest with his good hand, what's left of the other rests along the barrel. Blood still blossoms up against the makeshift bandages.

_If that's what the rebels managed to do to a SEAL…_

Swallowing hard, Tony looks away. At the darkened trees. At the swollen moon that hangs low enough for them to touch. At the clouds that start to go pink around the edges. Anywhere to avoid staring at the bloodied stump that is black in the moonlight.

_What have the rebels done to Gibbs and McGee?_

Tony lets the thud of his combat boots pull him into a sort of hypnosis. It's just enough to recapture that empty feeling he used to get when he would take a Charger to Norfolk to interview a witness. Road Zen, the closest thing he'll ever come to Nirvana. He is going through motions, bending into the turns, letting his mind wander to things.

Trivial things.

Inconsequential things.

Movies. He always comes back to movies.

Right now, Tony watches his life play out on a movie screen somewhere. Maybe it is because the air is thicker than water or the fatigues are as starched as a costume or the walking motion is like a march to the gallows. But Tony feels like an actor, waiting for the director to yell _Cut!_

His hand jostles the ColtM4A1 that is slung across his chest. The weapon, along with the rest of his gear, is heavy. The grip is textured, rugged. The handle is short, smooth. The metal of the barrel is hot—whether from his body heat or the steamy night air, Tony isn't sure. The weapon is dangerous, deadly.

Real.

Everything is real.

Tim and Gibbs being taken hostage by a bunch of rebels. Tony leaving his daughter in his father's—sort of—capable hands to catch a plane halfway around the world to join a SOC team. Tony marching through the jungle with three able-bodied SEALs, another that is short-handed, and his replacement on Team Gibbs. Tony doesn't want to hear the punchline to that terrible joke.

As if sensing the rumination, Nick nudges Tony with his elbow. When Tony glances over, the moonlight glints off the perspiration on Nick's face. His expression is as exhausted as Tony feels and they haven't even managed more than a few clicks. Despite all of it, he grins broadly. That mask, Tony recognizes all too well. A hint of one plays on Tony's face.

"You're awfully quiet, DiNozzo," Nick says. "Got something on your mind?"

With his smile broadening, Tony gestures to his surroundings. "I was thinking about how much the jungle reminds me of _Jurassic Park._ Do you think we'll run into a T. Rex out here? _"_

Nick tilts his head as though listening hard. "I don't hear anything. I think we're good for now. But you should watch your step."

Freezing, Tony glances to the ground. "Why?"

"You don't want to step in any primordial ooze," Nick says, chuckling.

Without missing a beat, Ashwood turns back. "Or dinosaur shit."

At the joke, the group dissolves into peals of laughter. The tension between them dissipates like the steam burning off the mountain tops as day breaks. The inky purples and blues of night bleed with dawn's oranges and pinks until the sun reclaims the sky.

Grange holds his hand up, calling for silence. And like good soldiers, they follow the order.

As they continue to march, the temperate creeps towards sweltering. The group takes a short rest right after dawn. Tony collapses to the ground, his screaming muscles grateful for a minute's rest. Lugging a toddler up the Eiffel Tower doesn't quite compare to the monster mashes that the SEALs run on a routine basis. Tony thought it might be enough. But now that his body protests and complains about the effort, he doubts it.

Ashwood rolls his eyes and mutters, _"Those two aren't even pollywogs."_

Grange takes more of Tony and Nick's nonessential items into his pack.

He studies Tony for a long moment. "We came up with a code name for ya."

Tony's eyebrows jump with surprise. "Really? Let's hear it."

"Fleming." Grange crooks a smile. "Your rebel friend couldn't stop saying how much you _don't_ look like Roger Moore. Torres came up with it while you were sleeping."

"'There can be only one,'" Tony says in his best Sean Connery accent.

Grange chuckles. "That's _The Highlander."_

Tony fumbles. "Good point. Well, there can be only one James Bond."

"I agree." Grange laughs heartily. "Do me a favor."

"Yeah?" Tony nods.

"Don't tell Torres that Ashwood dubbed him Moneypenny."

Tony cracks a grin. "I'll see what I can do."

And suddenly, the smirk melts from Grange's face when his radio goes off. He pulls it out of his backpack. When he listens to the message, his expression turns thunderous. Shoving it back into his bag, he calls the rest of the group together for a quick talk.

"Alright men, listen up." Everyone perks up instantly. "Our back-up platoon got held up."

Miller throws his hands up. "Yeah? What's more important than helping us?"

"Apparently, Kiki," he says flatly.

"Who's that?" Tony asks.

"Kiki is the name of the sweet little lady in their boat's path," Ashwood explains.

When the SEALs groan and roll their eyes, Nick pipes up: "Wait, a whole platoon got distracted by a _chick?_ How does a woman get in front of a boat?"

"Kiki is a typhoon," Grange clarifies. "So it looks like this op will be boots already on the ground. W proceed with the sneak n' peek. If we confirm the bogeys—" Tony cringes at how Tim and Gibbs became _bogeys_ as soon as they left the base "— are here, the rest of the shellbacks'll join us for the party."

"Great plan," Ashwood jumps in. "I coulda PDOOMA that one too."

Grange ignores him. "Move out."

After some acrobatics on Tony's part to get off the ground—that shit is _heavy_ —they're moving again. For the rest of the hike, Tony keeps his eyes alert and his hand wrapped around the grip of his weapon. Bugs bigger than Parisian pigeons buzz around his face. They almost make him wish a would wander past and snack on them. Not to mention, he wouldn't mind if it made a meal of Ashwood either.

Sometime when their shadows—at least, what they can see of them underneath the jungle canopy—shrink to nothing, they reach the rebel village. For all the movies he has seen, Tony expected...more.

The rebel village is nothing more than a shanty camp built into a mountain side. In the center is a patch of scorched earth, likely a fire pit. Surrounding it are tiny huts cobbled together with random pieces of wood, metal, and trash. Huge oil drums, filled with what looks like rainwater, rest near the buildings. Pairs of rebels with Soviet era—at least Tony thinks, those guns have more spare parts than Frankenstein—assault rifles parade around the camp.

The SEALs, Nick and Tony duck underneath the brush to hide from view. Tony lays flat on his stomach with his rifle pulled to his chest. His muscles scream from the effort and even though he ends up landing on a rock, he is grateful to be off his feet. He shifts his weight to get more comfortable.

Out of the corner of his eye, Tony catches Nick staring at Dean.

"Do these rebels keep their cash stockpiles with their hostages too?" Nick hisses.

Dean barely shakes his head. "Those are in a camp down the mountain. Twelve clicks due east."

"You're planning on trying again." Nick's face twists in anger. "Are you _fucking_ insane? After what happened to Gibbs and McGee did for– "

"Stick to the gouge," Grange snaps.

Nick's brow furrows. "The _what?"_

Tony leans over to whisper: "The information we need to rescue Gibbs and McGee. Everything else is irrelevant right now."

"But he – " Nick points his rifle accusingly at Dean " – is planning to try and rob the rebels. _Again_. If it weren't for him, Gibbs and McGee would still be safe."

When Grange's face turns impassive, Tony understands the sentiment. While Dean might be responsible for what brought the team to Paraguay to being with, he is still part of an ever-dwindling team for the rescue mission. Despite how black and white the situation appears, Tony appreciates the greyness the SEALs embraced. Assistance is assistance; they can deal with Dean later.

Tony puts his hand on Nick's shoulder. "Rule 45"

Nick blinks. "Why would we need to hide the women and children?"

"That's Rule 44. Rule 45 is 'Clean up the mess you make,'" Tony explains. "Let Dean—"

"Aramis," Dean interrupts.

Tony's frown deepens. Call signs. Communication between them is supposed to be only their call signs. Fucking call signs. Tony can't believe he forgot that since they left. He holds up an apologetic hand.

"Let _Aramis_ fix it," he says. "We can deal with the consequences later."

When Nick starts to protest, Grange interjects: "Listen to Fleming, Moneypenny."

"Moneypenny?" Nick's features twist in surprise as he whispers: "You named me after a secretary? James Bond's secretary?"

"In her defense, she was a hot secretary," Ashwood says, grinning at the others. Then he adds to Nick: "Would you rather be Judy Dench?"

When Tony stifles a chuckle into the crook of his elbow, Nick unleashes a glare that could freeze hell. While it might be scary for him, it has nothing on the one that Gibbs used to level at the team. And for four SEALs who are used to staring down the barrel of terrorists' weapons, it has no effect. Thankfully, the distraction is enough to refocus Nick away from Dean and his indiscretions.

Grange glances at the men. "You know what to do. Fleming and Moneypenny, you're with me."

Ashwood winks. "Good luck with the narc and sand crab, Ranger."

Grange rolls his eyes. "Maintain radio silence unless absolutely necessary."

And with that, Ashwood, Miller, and Dean slip into the jungle. Before long, the foliage swallows them whole as they move around the village. Tony switches on his earwig. The sound of breathing and heavy footsteps sound in Tony's ear as he listens to the SEALs move through the jungle.

In theory, the SEALs' plan for a sneak and peek is easy. They are supposed to blend in with the plants and the rainforest inhabitants until they get visual confirmation that Tim and Gibbs are here. Then, they wait until the other SEALs join them. In practice, it is the world's worst stake out where you can't even get out of the Charger for a stretch and jog around the block. And there is no fucking coffee.

Minutes stretch into hours with Tony lying motionless on the hot, wet ground. He smacks at the giant bugs trying to take a bite out of him. A finger-shaped fern dancing in the breeze tickles his nose. He holds his breath, desperate not to sneeze. Rain soaks through his shirt, rolls down his neck. Tony takes a mental inventory of his MREs—food always did make stakeouts go quicker.

Grange doesn't speak; neither does Nick. They just watch the camp with binoculars. Grange is hunkered down with an MK11 SWS nestled against his chest. Every so often, he peers down the scope to check on a target. After a while, Nick passes Tony his binoculars. He presses the heels of his hands against his tired eyes. Then he settles down in the grass for a nap.

Tony takes his turn to keep watch on the town. Through the binoculars' lenses, the camp is even more rundown than he originally thought. After a quick glance, he takes stock of the rebel patrols. Six guards move around the camp at equal intervals while other rebels move around for their work. Tony's mental count quickly hits seventeen.

_Which means there's a lot more…_

Ashwood's voice suddenly comes through the earwig. _"I think I got Bogey Two incoming."_

"Which direction?" Grange replies, scanning the camp.

_"North side. Headed straight towards me."_

"I don't see him," Grange says.

_"Navy shirt, green pants. He's trying real hard to stay outta sight."_

When Tony scans the camp, he almost misses the figure Ashwood describes. Crouched low, the man scrambles from building to building. When he peers around the side of a hut, Tony catches sight of the man's face. Even though it is tight with worry and sunburned, Tony would recognize it anywhere.

His chest tightens.

_Probie._

Tim pauses for a moment as though checking inside the hut. Then, he sneaks along the side of the hut to avoid one of the rebel patrols. He slips behind another set of buildings just as another rebel wanders past. As he watches his friend, Tony holds his breath.

"Do we have confirmation?" Grange asks.

Tony's mouth goes as dry as the desert they found Ziva in. His tongue feels too fat for his mouth, too awkward to work, too…

_"I think so. Care to do your job, Fleming?"_ Ashwood crows.

"That's McGee," Tony breathes.

When Tim pops up deeper in the camp, there is no missing the raw fear in his eyes. It takes everything Tony has not to run into the camp guns blazing. He wants to call out to Tim and tell him that everything is fine, tell him that he's safe, tell him that he's going home. He tightens his grip on the NATO. All Tony can do is watch his friend scurry around like a mouse trapped in a maze.

_"What the fuck is he doing?"_ Ashwood asks.

"Looks like he's looking for something," Grange offers.

"Someone," Tony corrects. "He is looking for Gibbs."

"What?" Grange asks.

Tony's heart sinks as he watches Tim search. "He and Gibbs would never willingly separate."

Grange's face twists into a scowl. "Does anyone have sight of Bogey One?"

_"Nope,_ _" "Nada," "Nothin' Ranger,"_ come through the earwig at the same time.

"About time for the monkey to fuck a fucking football," Grange growls.

Even Tony has no idea what the hell that means. Based on how Grange narrows his eyes, it isn't good.

Tim creeps towards a hut on the far edge of the camp. In the distance, the plants shift slightly as though riding the breeze. Tony figures that's one of the SEALs' hiding places.

_"If he gets any closer, I'm gonna grab him,"_ Ashwood says.

While Tony isn't religious, he holds his breath and lets his mind go blank. He did the same thing when he heard the news about Ziva—an impromptu moment of silence before he learned about his daughter. It might be the closest to praying that he ever gets. What's the point, he always figured, if no one listens? And when he helplessly watches Tim's next move, Tony _knows_ no one can be bothered with them.

Taking a hard left away from Ashwood's position, Tim heads down a path between two huts. Tony notices the rebel with the Franken-assault rifle before Tim does. He bites his cheek to stop himself from calling out. Tony wants to tell Tim that he is here. Here in this godforsaken jungle to save the closest thing to a brother he has ever known. He wants everyone in that fucking camp to know that he'll rain hellfire and brimstone on them for hurting his friends.

His grip tightens on the NATO as though that alone could help Tim.

Grange raises the MK11, stares down the scope. Holding his breath, he locks onto his target.

At the sight of Tim, the rebel barks a savage yell. He raises his weapon. Tim backpedals, tripping and scrambling. A split-second later, another rebel appears to cut off Tim's exit. With no hope for escape, Tim puts his hands on his head. One of the rebels uses the barrel of his gun to nudge Tim back from the direction he came. Tim keeps his defeated eyes on the ground.

When they disappear behind the buildings, Grange swears viciously.

Nick is awake, watching. He reaches for his H&K MP-5SD6 9mm as he gets to his knees.

Grange pulls him back. "We'll recover him."

" _He_ has a _name,"_ Nick whispers harshly _. "_ Let's go get McGee."

And that's when Tony understands why it's all call signs and referring to Tim and Gibbs as the _bogeys_. Names means feelings and feelings are personal and that makes things messy.

_Rule 10._

Tony's knuckles go white against the grip of his gun.

_How can it not be personal when the people involved are my family?_

"It's too risky to go in now. It could get McGee killed," Tony offers, fumbling with his pack for night vision goggles. "We'll head in after dark. Why else would we have these?"

Grange nods slightly. "It's the only way to limit collateral damage."

"Or get our friends killed." Even though his tone is angry, Nick relaxes somewhat. He still stares at the camp like he'd be right on Tony's heels if he decided to storm the camp alone. Hell, if Nick led the charge, Tony would be right on his six.

_"I just lost visual,"_ Ashwood says. _"No idea where they took Bogey Two."_

Miller comes next. _"Ditto."_

_"Never saw him,_ " Dean says.

Grange's expression turns deadly. "No one knows where the hostiles took Bogey Two?"

When the line stays quiet, Tony figures no one is man enough to admit that they don't have an answer. And if Grange scares a bunch of SEALs, Tony decides it best to stay on his good side.

"Way to goon it up, shellbacks," Grange barks. "Somebody find him. Now!"

The earwig turns into a cacophony of _"Yeah"_ and _"On it, Ranger."_

Covering his mic, Grange glances to Tony. "What's his next move?"

"Who?" Tony asks, wanting to hear Grange says Tim's name. Wanting to make it personal.

Grange holds Tony's gaze. "What is McGee's next move?"

"He'll do whatever it takes to find Gibbs," Tony says simply.

Grange's brow furrows. "I thought you said he wasn't a cowboy."

Breaking eye contact, Tony stares back at the rebel camp. "He was taught by a Marine to never leave a man behind. You, of all people, know how deep that runs."

"That makes him as unpredictable as Gibbs." Grange shakes his head. "Hell, even more so."

All Tony has to offer is a half-smile and an apologetic shrug. Out of the corner of his eye, Tony watches Grange study him. The SEAL's expression turns impassive as though he is seeing Tony for the first time. Like he finally understands that, despite the differences in their training, Tony's job is the same as Gibbs', the same as Tim's, the same as the SEALs': Complete the mission or die trying.

Grange's face goes stormy. "I've got enough cowboys for a damned rodeo."


	9. Chapter 9

They don't see Tim again.

Tony settles against the ground to watch the daily life unfold in the rebel camp. Several rebels convene around an unlit fire pit to share a meal and socialize. Like it's completely normal to hold two American agents captive in the jungle. Constant rebel patrols march through the clusters of huts. The two on the south side follow the pair on the north before they cut up the middle in a careful figure eight pattern. After observing them for what feels like hours—but can't be more than twenty minutes—Tony notices there is no variation to the routine.

_Amateurs._

Grange casts a sidelong glance at Nick and Tony. "If you need the rest, now would be the time."

"I could use some," Nick says flatly.

Using his pack as a pillow, Nick curls up in the jungle foliage. Even though his eyes are closed and his breathing even and controlled, Tony doubts he is asleep. If he has a good read on Nick, the man is probably biding his time to figure out his next move. Shortly, the pretense gives way to actual sleep.

"Fleming?" Grange asks.

Without moving the binoculars, Tony shakes his head. "I'm good."

Grange shrugs. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

Working his jaw like a spring, Tony searches the huts in hopes for some trace of Tim or Gibbs. The only thing he observes is a flurry of activity around a hut in the south side. A pair of rebels, worried and anxious, stop to congregate at the entrance. They talk to each other like they're afraid of something.

Suddenly, a rebel, expression terrified and shirt soaked with sweat, races out of a hut. The others shy away from him, but he doesn't stop moving. He nearly faceplants as he runs towards the group of rebels around the fire pit. He comes full-stop by a tall man wearing a black t-shirt and a face as grim as death.

_That must be their leader._

Tony clucks his tongue to catch Grange's attention. "Got something. Looks like it might be the boss?"

Grange swings his binoculars around until he locates the conversation around the fire pit. Then, he hitches a nod.

"Good catch, Fleming," he says. Then Grange speaks into the microphone: "Looks the Head Honcho is headed south, southwest. Maintain visual."

Ashwood's voice comes through the earwig. _"That guy looks like the Goblin King from the Labyrinth."_

Tony half-smiles. "You remind me of the babe."

 _"What babe?"_ Ashwood asks.

Biting his tongue, Tony can't believe his microphone is still on. He chews the inside of his cheek, hoping that his knee jerk reaction to throw out a movie quote didn't distract Ashwood. He doesn't reply.

Through the binoculars, Tony watches the leader and the rebel head back towards the hut. The leader pulls a bottle of pills out of his pocket. Tony has no idea what they could be for until the door opens. On the dirt floor is a prone man whose chest rises and falls in rapid staccato. His face is drenched with sweat and flushed like fire. But it's his hair that sends Tony reeling.

Grey hair. Bad jarhead haircut.

He would recognize _that_ haircut from France. After spending years trying to hunt down the barber responsible for that travesty—and finding out there wasn't one. After spending years trying to figure out how someone could think _that_ looked good. After spending more than a decade staring at it across the bullpen. He could never forget that hair.

Suddenly, the air grows too thick to breathe. Tony chokes on it.

 _"Did Fleming see something? I have no visual,"_ Ashwood bleats.

Grange elbows Tony. "Was that Bogey One?"

Even though he understands why the SEALs won't say their names, Tony needs to hear one of them say it. He needs to know they'll keep it personal because these are his coworkers, his friends, his family. And here, they find Gibbs may be injured or sick. Or hell, even dying.

_And no one will even say his fucking name._

_"Earth to Fleming,"_ Ashwood says. _"Did you see Bogey One?"_

"Gibbs," Tony says angrily. "That was Gibbs."

Grange turns away. "We have visual confirmation on Bogey One. Location is on the south side. There appears to be two hostiles and the Head Honcho – "

 _"The Goblin King,"_ Ashwood interrupts.

"Fine," Grange growls. "The Goblin King with him. Hold your positions for now."

 _"Right,"_ comes the chorus from Ashwood, Miller, and Dean.

Covering his mic with his hand, Grange leans closer to Tony. "Will you have a problem going in there, Fleming? If you're going to fuck things up, I'll bench your ass."

Tony shakes his head. "Not at all, Grange. It's just another case."

Grange's look calls him a liar, but he keeps his thoughts to himself. With Gibbs' location known, the SEALs fall into a carefully choreographed routine. They alternate between keeping tabs on Gibbs, counting the rebels and scanning the camp for Tim. Here and there, they drop off to take a rest or a leak or have a meal while they count down the minutes to the mission start. Somewhere in there Nick wakes up, but he stays silent and hypervigilant while watching the camp.

Day slowly bleeds into night. Under the cover of darkness, another half-platoon of SEALs arrives. While Tony never sees them, he hears them signing onto the radio frequency of the earwig. They are nothing more than an anonymous cacophony of call signs that he doesn't have the time to register in his addled brain. He is too busy staring at the hut where the rebels are holding Gibbs.

Even though Grange calls for radio silence, Ashwood just won't stop talking.

 _"Hey Fleming, what babe were you talking about earlier?"_ Ashwood asks. _"Do you have some French chick back home you didn't tell us about? Are you gonna share?"_

Tony takes the bait for the movie quote. "I was talking about the babe with the power."

_"What power?"_

"The power of voodoo." Even though Tony's heart isn't in it, he goes through the motions.

Ashwood keeps at it anyway. _"Who do?"_

"You do."

_"Do what?"_

"Remind me of the babe."

Slowly, Tony's anxiety stops pulsing like an exposed nerve. The predictability of Ashwood's movie quotes dulls Tony's apprehension until it simmers just below the surface. Grange tells Ashwood to shut the fuck up. But he doesn't. More and more SEALs join in with the movie quotes. One SEAL called Kujo even sings an off-key rendition of a David Bowie song in Tony's ear. In spite of everything, Tony laughs.

The repeated movie lines and listening to the SEALs shoot the shit burns the hours away.

The rebels slowly abandon their fire pit in favor of their beds. As the fire slowly turns to smoldering embers, the smoke burns Tony's lungs. The moon hangs high and full, bright enough to bathe the world below in an ethereal blue glow. It dances off Nick's dark eyes, the scope of Grange's sniper rifle, the barrel of Tony's M4.

Then, Ashwood's rambling abruptly stops.

Tony hazards a glance at his watch.

_0200._

Somewhere between the time SEALs like to call o'dark hundred and ass o'clock. Tony knew it as 'the witching hour' on the Baltimore beat. That time when half the world is sleeping and the other half is up to no good. That time when all the weird shit goes down. And it's the perfect time for the SEALs to launch their assault.

After double checking that his vest is secured and helmet strap tight, Tony grips the barrel of the M4. He eases into a crouch while Nick copies the motion.

Grange speaks into the microphone. "Husker. Johnny Rocket. We'll retrieve Bogey One. The rest of you, find Bogey Two. Don't goon it up."

Tony takes the SEALs' silence as an agreement. Grange waves his finger in a circle at Tony and Nick to tell them that they're with him. They both nod.

Then Grange uses his MK11 SWS to drop the closest two rebel patrols.

With their sign to move in, the SEALs sweep into the rebel camp. Grange swaps a M4 for his MK11 SWS. When he races into the camp, Tony and Nick are right on his heels. Tony switches back to the auto-pilot that comes from his agent days. He moves, M4 raised and eyes sweeping the camp.

Ashwood whoops in Tony's ear. _"Let's get this party started."_

Even though Tony has watched enough war movies, nothing truly prepares him for the SEALs' boots on the ground action. They creep quietly, Tony and Nick glued to Grange's six until a rebel coming to take a leak notices them. The man stares at them, wide-eyed. Tony and Nick stand stock-still, frozen like two kids caught sneaking treats before dinner. Grange swings his M4 round, but he isn't quick enough.

 _"Federales!"_ the man shrieks. _"They're here! They're – "_

Grange drops him with a single shot. The whole village comes alive with the sound of rebels scrambling from their beds to get to their guns.

Ashwood comes through the earwig. _"Did one of your boys goon it up, Ranger?"_

"We got made," Grange says. "Whole thing's FUBAR."

_"Nothing new for the HMFIC. Huh, Ranger?"_

Grange mutters a string of his obscenities. "You shellbacks know what to do."

All around them, the staccato of gunfire rips the peaceful night to shreds. The earwig crackles with SEALs relaying positions to each other and calling for assistance. It's enough to make Tony's head spin. Nick takes a step closer to him and points his weapon into the darkness.

"Have you done this before, Torres?" Tony asks.

"Oh yeah, all the time." Nick's tone is all bravado. "How about you, DiNozzo?"

"Once or twice," he shoots back.

For some reason, Nick turns to look at Tony. At that moment, a rebel darts out from between two huts. His rifle is pointed straight at Nick's chest. Without a second though, Tony squeezes the trigger on the M4. The rebel drops to the ground, unmoving.

It takes Nick a moment to recover. "Nice shot, man. Thanks."

Tony just offers a one-armed shrug and a grin.

They don't have a chance to absorb what just happened, _what's happening._ As they start moving again, Tony stares at the dead man's wide eyes. The silver moon glints in the dark pools of the man's irises as he stares into the abyss. Guilt ripples through Tony's heart. His first kill since he left NCIS—since accepting he was someone's father—is some anonymous man ripped from his village by rebels.

_It's not as easy as I remember._

Grange turns back. "Fleming! Come on!"

"Right," Tony says, nodding so hard that his helmet bounces against his head.

And he's moving again, M4 up and eyes alert and dead rebel all but forgotten. Two more rebels appear in their path. Their hair is wild, face ravaged by sleep. Grange takes out both of them and continues on as nothing happened.

Stopping in his tracks, Nick's gaze swivels between the two men and Grange's back. When he starts to speak, Tony urges him forward. They don't have time for this. They'll deal with it later.

They carefully thread their way through the huts. Tony's heart pounds so hard that it threatens to escape his chest. The grip of his M4 goes slick with sweat and he struggles to keep hold on it. Thankfully, no other rebels cross their path.

Up ahead, the hut where Gibbs is being held comes into view. Tony's chest clenches at just how close he is to his former boss, just how close he is to the man he once thought of as a surrogate father. Tony moves quicker until he is almost overtaking Grange.

"Fleming," Grange warns.

A single gunshot rings from the hut.

"Gibbs!" Tony yells, bolting. "Gibbs!"

"DiNozzo," Nick says, reaching for his arm.

Tony slithers out of Nick's grasp. Dropping the M4 to hang by the arm strap, he takes off running. Grange calls out behind him, but Tony doesn't stop until he flies through the hut's open door. He finds a dead rebel lying just over the threshold. Tony steps over him.

In the center of the dirt floor, Gibbs lies bathed in a patch of moonlight. It accentuates the wrinkles on his face that Tony never noticed. For the life of him, Tony can't remember Gibbs as an old man. But here, he is as fragile and brittle as glass, no longer the hardened Marine sniper with a heart of steel.

Crouched beside Gibbs, Miller presses his hand against Gibbs' neck.

_Please don't tell me…_

Tony races forward, stumbling over the ground and his feet. He scrambles to reach Gibbs' side. He trips over his boots, lands onto his hands and knees. When Miller looks over, his face is grim.

"Bogey One is secure. I repeat, Bogey One is secure," Miller says into his microphone. Then he turns to Tony: "Fleming, you should wait outside."

Tony holds his ground. "I'm not leaving."

When their eyes meet, Miller half-nods as though to accept that it would take a platoon of SEALs to get Tony out of the hut. He turns back to Gibbs and that's when Tony realizes Miller is the team's medic.

"Is he – " Tony can't get the word out.

"Not yet."

"What's wrong?"

"I don't know," Miller admits with a frown, "but I doubt it's something a bunch of M-bombs will fix. I'll see what I can do here, but we'll need an evac outta here ASAP."

Miller digs through his backpack to remove an IV bag of fluid and tubing. When he pulls out the tourniquet, Tony glances back to where Nick and Grange watch them.

"Do you think the rebels poisoned him?" Tony asks absently.

"Other than the overdose of quinine they gave him, no. They probably thought he had malaria, but – " Miller presses his lips into a deep line " – it could be anything. G-d only knows how many tropical shit diseases are down here."

The notion that a microbe could take down the legendary Leroy Jethro Gibbs strikes Tony as ludicrous. If explosions and bullets and three ex-wives didn't put Gibbs in the ground, Tony truly doubts a tiny speck of a thing that no one could even find would be able to take his life. Hell, Gibbs would probably be one of the survivors of a nuclear apocalypse along with cockroaches and Twinkies.

Miller's voice pulls Tony out of his thoughts. "Can you hold his arm?"

After a quick nod, Tony straightens Gibbs' arm to allow Miller to bury the needle into one of his veins. While Miller fiddles with the IV bag, Gibbs' eyelids flutter half-open. His gaze is foggy and bleary until he focuses on Tony. Then, a wave of emotions seems to wash through them.

"Tony," he murmurs.

"Gibbs." Tony swallows hard.

Gibbs licks his dry lips. "Thought you were gone for good."

"I couldn't stay away. That's not the way you taught me, Boss."

"Not your boss anymore."

Tony lets out a strangled laugh. "Now that I'm officially retired, you always will be."

Gibbs cracks a weak smile. When his eyes slowly close, Tony grabs his shoulders and squeezes _. Hard._ It's as much to keep him in the moment as to bring Gibbs round again. His former boss lets out a frail growl and his eyes open to slits again.

"Shoulda told you…" Gibbs takes a rasping breath "…when I had the chance."

Tony leans forward. "Told me what?"

Their eyes lock. And for a moment, the world goes silent. Tony thinks he might have gone deaf until Gibbs pulls in another breath, his chest wheezing.

"You made me proud, kid."

Tony chokes up. "Thanks, Boss."

Gibbs settles back against the ground. "Maybe if I told you, you woulda stayed."

"I don't know if it would have mattered. Tali changed things." Tony sighs. "She changed everything."

Even though it is a lie, Tony tries to convince himself otherwise. Deep down he knows—he _fucking_ knows—that if Gibbs had ever offered a modicum of approval and support, he would've stayed in Washington. He would've made single fatherhood and being an agent and fucking everything work to keep his makeshift family together. Hell, he probably would be the one down here instead of Tim.

Tony's chest tightens.

"Do you know where McGee is, Boss?" he blurts out.

Gibbs barely manages to shake his head.

Behind him, Tony hears Grange calling for the SEALs to report about the location of Bogey Two. Through the earwig, there is a cacophony of call signs and variations of the word _No._

Just as Tony starts to look back at Nick and Grange, Gibbs reaches up. Gibbs' hand cups Tony's cheek. Underneath the feverish fire in his fingers, there is a tenderness that Tony hasn't experienced in a long time. When their eyes meet, Gibbs' are as clear as a summer day.

"Find him, Tony," Gibbs whispers. "Bring Tim home."

And for what Tony knows will be the last time, he cracks his trademark grin. "On it, Boss."

_-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-_

Propped up against the hut wall, Tim only dozes. He hasn't managed more than a few minutes of actual sleep since he was taken. His body is constantly on high alert, ready for anything. The rumblings of the jungle, like he once had on a mood CD, aren't soothing anymore. Instead, the calls of the birds and wild animals only set him further on edge. If he makes it home, he'll never complain about the roars and growls of city traffic in Tony's apartment again.

Somewhere nearby, Manzo shuffles around on the dirt floor. Tim does the same thing, trying to find a more comfortable position. He sits himself up, shakes his arms to encourage some feeling back into his hands. When it doesn't work, he settles back against the wall with a sigh.

Another noise, under the din of the jungle, catches Tim's attention. They echo like earthquakes.

Footsteps.

The rebels never come in the dead of night.

_Is that someone coming to rescue us?_

Seconds later, a group of rebels appear as shadows in the doorway. They loom, ragged and terrifying, like monsters against the moon's bluish glow. Their agitated whispers fill the hut. While he doesn't understand a word, Tim recognizes their fear.

His heart lifts.

_Delilah, we're coming home._

When a familiar voice—Alejandro is amongst them—barks an order, silences rolls over the hut. A rebel cuts the ropes around Tim's ankles. He jerks Tim to his feet, but the agent lets his body go limp. When the rebel tries again, Tim throws himself back to the floor. If rescue is as close as he knows it is, he will do everything to slow them down.

"I'm not going," he says.

Alejandro unholsters his gun.

When Tim glares up at him, Alejandro's eyes are darker than the night. A chill runs down Tim's spine because it's like staring into the face of the devil himself. He finds himself staring down the barrel. He doesn't move. Setting his jaw, Tim challenges Alejandro to pull the trigger.

Alejandro jerks his gun to the side. Right to where Manzo is just waking up.

"Tim? You okay?" Manzo slurs, his voice thick with sleep.

Alejandro mutters something that brings Manzo around. At the sight of the gun, Manzo scrambles backwards towards the wall. He whispers pitifully in Spanish. A plea or a prayer, Tim isn't sure. Tim scrambles to his knees, ready to launch himself in between the boy and the bullet.

Alejandro speaks before pausing to let Manzo translate.

"We go now," he says, voice wavering.

Tim's body turns leaden. He can't bring himself to move.

Alejandro speaks again. To Tim, it sounds like a final warning.

"Or they shoot." Manzo sniffles. Then he cries: "They kill me, Tim. They kill me."

For the first time since they met, Manzo sounds like the child he is. The tone of his voice twist Tim's stomach, makes his heart thud in his chest, brings tears to his eyes.

_Is that what my child's will voice sound like?_

The barrel of the gun glints in the moonlight as Alejandro tightens his grip. Manzo stares up with pleading eyes that Tim could drown in. On the other side of the camp, gunfire erupts. Help is close. So close. But right now, it might as well be clear across the world.

Alejandro draws the weapon's hammer back.

_I can't be the reason Manzo dies._

"Don't shoot!" Tim struggles to his feet. "I'll come. Just don't shoot him!"

Alejandro holds Tim's gaze poignantly. When Tim takes a step forward, Alejandro roughly hauls Manzo off the ground. He keeps a tight grip on the boy's upper arm and jams the gun against his ribs. He jerks his head towards the hut's entrance. A rebel grabs Tim's arm to hustle him into the night.

The cool air brings gooseflesh to Tim's skin. He shudders uncontrollably.

_As soon as I get an opening, I'll get us back to that rescue mission._

The rebels drag him and Manzo into the jungle.

_I'll come home._

Over his shoulder, Tim watches the darkness swallow the outline of the camp.

_I promise, Delilah. I promise._


	10. Chapter 10

For Tim, trekking through the jungle with his hands tied behind his back borders on impossible. The uneven ground and low-lying plants are unexpected hurdles in the near darkness. He continually trips over them, falls to his knees. And the rebel waving the gun in his face isn't fucking helping.

The rebel jerks him to his feet and shoves Tim forward. Catching on tree root, Tim ends flat on his face. He doesn't even catch his breath before the rebel hauls Tim up by his shirt. His feet are unsteady, but he is shoved forward again.

"¡Rapido!" the rebel whispers harshly.

Tim has picked up enough Spanish to know it means: _Quit stalling and move your lazy ass._

Under any other circumstance, Tim would be doing it on purpose. But there is something glinting like fire in Alejandro's eyes. Like he is just waiting to riddle Manzo with bullets.

"I'm going as fast as I can," Tim says.

When the rebel pushes him, Tim trips over his boot. He lands on his face again. Something in the hot mud digs into his cheek. He mutters a curse.

The rebel drags Tim up. "¡Rapido!"

Tim digs his heels in. "If you want me to move faster, untie my hands."

The rebel urges him to move, but Tim holds his ground. When the six rebels gather around him, Tim realizes his mistake. Either he will get what he wants or they'll shoot him right here.

His senses grow exceptionally clear. He swears he hears every animal lumbering around the jungle, every breathe from the rebels around him, Manzo's rapid heartbeat. Underneath it all, he can almost hear Delilah's quiet sobs back in Washington.

Tim struggles to swallow the lump rising in his throat.

After dragging Manzo back to the group, Alejandro shakes the boy until he quickly translates. Then, Alejandro gives an annoyed nod before turning back to his hike. The others start to move them.

The rebel rests his rifle on the ground before cutting the ropes around Tim's wrists.

As soon as the ropes go slack, Tim's training kicks in. He scoops the rifle off the ground. Then Tim cracks the butt against the rebel's jaw before smashing it against the side of his head. The rebel topples to the ground with a deafening _thud._ Tim knows he won't be getting up again.

The other rebels rush towards him. When Tim strikes out at the closest one, a gunshot cracks through the darkness. The man's body jerks and he crumples to the ground, motionless.

Tim's heart thuds in his chest as he scans the trees. He expects the SEALs to sweep through the brush like leviathans emerging from the dark sea. But the jungle around him is quiet and still.

Another crack of a gunshot draws his attention back to the front of the rebel group.

Right to where Manzo stands with Alejandro's revolver. Blood is splattered across his face, black as death against the moonlight. Like the grim reaper himself.

And that's when the world catches up to Tim again. His heart clenches.

"Tim," Manzo says, his face twisting with the realization of what he's done.

"Run, Manzo! Run!" Tim shouts.

When the boy darts into the jungle, Tim is right on his heels. Behind them, the gunshots shatter the tranquil night. Bullets shred the trees around them, sending bark and leaves flying. A piece of bark wedges itself in Tim's arm, but he doesn't feel it. He just keeps running, keeps urging Manzo onward.

For some inane reason, Tim's mind wanders to that scene from _Return of the Jedi_ where the Ewok steals a speeder from the Storm Troopers. If Tony were here, he would be quoting and crowing some quotes from that movie. Or maybe not even Star Wars, but probably some movie that Tim has never seen. Right now, Tim would give _anything_ for his friend to have his six.

And in that moment, Tony's absence is as real and as palpable as a gunshot wound. While he appreciates his new teammates, Tim understands that he took for granted that Tony would just _be there_. Like when that psycho cyberterrorist tried to murder him and Delilah. Or when that suspect tried to scramble his brain with a golf club.

But right now, Tim is on his own to keep a young boy safe from the five—maybe four?—rebels hunting them like prey. Left to his own devices and hopes that—with Gibbs out of commission—the SEALs will be the ones to find him. If not, someone needs to find them. He only hopes the loyalty and tenacity of his new team runs as deep as his old one.

Wild-eyed, Manzo turns back. "Tim!"

"Keep going, Manzo!"

Using his free hand, Tim shoves the boy forward. He stumbles, but regains his foot. Their feet thud over the heavy ground. Tim's muscles scream, but stopping means death and he isn't ready to go yet. With no destination and no plan, they plunge deeper into the jungle.

And farther away from safety.

_-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-_

After helping carry Gibbs out of the hut, Tony doesn't leave his former boss' side. He silently watches the SEALS take down the rebels _._ He feels a lot like an extra from _Apocalypse Now_ , a nameless and faceless soldier forced to be a spectator to the entire scene.

A group of SEALs herd their rebel captives back to the firepit in the center of camp. The men are forced to lie face down while their hands are ziptied behind their backs. Several SEALs keep watch, their M4s glinting in the moonlight, while the others continue to round up the enemy. Rushing amongst the huts, Grange and Nick continue their search for Tim. Every time they pass, Nick holds his hand to Tony as though say _This time. We'll get him this time._ On the fifth pass, Tony's heart drops straight to the ground.

_They should have found him by now._

Miller clears his throat. "Do you mind, Fleming?"

Tony blinks. "Huh?"

"Keep the bag elevated. He needs the fluids." Miller gestures at the IV bag in Tony's hands that is attached to Gibbs' arm.

For a split second, Tony forgot he was playing nurse to Miller's doctor. He hoists the bag back over his head. To get it started again, Miller gives Tony's hand a squeeze to force the solution into Gibbs' veins. Then he turns back to checking Gibbs' vitals and trying to get him stable enough for the return trip.

It doesn't seem to be working.

Every time he hazards a glance at Gibbs, Tony's stomach lodges itself in his throat. Gibbs' features are sunken and haggard. Wrinkles that Tony never noticed before are carved into his rough skin. The hints of a beard grace his jawline—just like it did when he ditched the team for that trial retirement he couldn't handle. For the first time in what Tony remembers, Gibbs looks like an old man.

"Come on, boss," Tony whispers. "Wake up."

Miller sets his jaw. "It isn't that easy, Fleming."

"Then do something," he roars.

"Believe me, I'm trying. Between the dehydration and the fever, there isn't much I can do here." Without looking over, Miller whips his index finger at the jungle. "He needs a hospital. Now."

"Just stay with us, boss," Tony says to Gibbs.

Seemingly unsure how to reply, Miller digs though his medicine pack. He checks his meager supplies before pushing a syringe of something into the IV line. When nothing happens, he scrunches his face.

"Bogey One is fading fast," he says into the microphone. "I need to get him back to base."

Through the earwig, Grange growls: _"Thanks for the reminder, Johnny Rocket. What do you think we're doing here? Having a fucking tea party?"_ Gunfire. _"Anybody got eyes on Bogey Two?"_

The cacophony of _No's_ starts up again. Tony fights the urge to rip out the earwig and stomp it into a pile of scrap metal. Instead, he settles back into helping…at least, trying to help his boss.

Gibbs doesn't move as the gunshots popping like firecrackers, as the SEALs barking orders at their rebel captives, as the bodies of the enemy slowly pile up. Even when the steamy night suddenly goes dead silent—not even a jungle animal is brave enough to break the silence—Gibbs still sleeps.

Slowly, the SEALs convene to where Tony, Miller and Gibbs are. Nick kneels by Tony's side. A single glance between them serves as their status update. _Gibbs isn't doing good,_ Tony's conveys while Nick says, _McGee is long gone._

Licking his lips, Tony settles back on his knees to watch the SEALs. They move, grim-faced and bodies tense, as though unwilling to accept defeat. Then, they start to interrogate their prisoners. Harsh whispers carry on the hot breeze that tickles the tree branches and cools the sweat on Tony's face.

_"Where is the other American?"_

_"Who took him?"_

_"Where did they go?"_

The only rebel to respond is the one with enough balls to say, _"I want a lawyer. You know, like on Law and Order."_ That earns him a couple hoots and hollers from several rebels and a swipe upside the head from a SEAL. The others—those who don't look old enough to drive in the States—keep their eyes fixed on the ground, probably longing for their parents and their beds.

Scrubbing his hand across his face, Tony closes his eyes. All he wants to do is pinch himself hard enough to wake up in the bullpen. If he never left, Tim might not have come to Paraguay. He might not have undertaken a suicide mission. He might still be safe.

Nick squeezes Tony's shoulder. "We will find McGee, Tony. The SEALs will figure out where he is, no matter how long it takes."

"Even if we do, the rebels will know we're coming." Tony pulls a breath through his teeth. "If we don't find him tonight, he won't come home."

After that, neither of them have anything else to say. After the years on Gibbs' team, Tony isn't accustomed to failure. And the kind of failure that involves leaving a man—the one he trained, no less—in enemy hands isn't the one Tony is ready to accept.

When Grange join them, Tony barely notices. He looms over them, studying Gibbs.

"How is Bogey One?" Grange asks.

Miller sets his jaw. "Not good, Ranger. We need an emergency evac outta here."

"No can do, Johnny Rocket. We can't take a chance on a helo because it might spook the hostiles. I can spare some men to get you back down the mountain. These two – " he gestures to Tony and Nick " – can help carry the gurney."

Nick scrambles to his feet. "What about McGee?"

"We're going after him as soon as we get a reliable lead."

"That's not good enough!" Nick bellows.

"It's a helluva a lot better than packing it up." Grange shrugs. "We have no way of knowing where they went. Without something concrete, we – "

Suddenly, Ashwood's voice crackles on the earwig. _"Ranger, I got footprints. Looks like a lot of 'em."_

Grange pushes on his mic. "We had a lot of hostiles run when we showed up."

_"There's two sets that look like they're being dragged. I'm going to check it out."_ Ashwood clears his throat. _"Anybody up for a romantic walk through the jungle?"_

And without a second thought, Tony scoops up his M4 and presses on the mic. "Husker, I'm on my way."

Nick copies the motion. "Me too."

_"Wait. Was that Fleming and Moneypenny?"_ Ashwood asks.

Grange grits his teeth. "Yeah. Give me a minute."

After slinging the strap to his M4 back around his shoulder, Tony rests his right forearm across the stock. He sets his jaw, squaring his shoulders as he draws himself to his full height. It's the same motion Gibbs used to do before tearing down a suspect in an interrogation. Out of the corner Tony's eye, he catches Nick carefully mimics the controlled stance.

Grange sizes them up.

Tony holds his ground. "If I'm the expert on my former team, you need me to know how they'll react."

Grange shoots Nick a sidelong glance.

Nick nods emphatically. "McGee can be…really impulsive. Yeah, a real psycho when things get heated up. Like completely insane – " He stops when Tony elbows him in the ribs.

Eventually, Grange makes a face. "Let's move out before I change my mind." Then he presses on his earwig. "Husker, we're on our way. I need a team to get Bogey One and Johnny Rocket out of here. And another for a second search party."

There earwig explodes into a tirade of call signs and which mission they're tackling. Tony doesn't bother to listen. As they move through what's left of the rebel village, Tony wills himself not to stare at the bodies lining the dirt packed streets. They lie on their backs, hands still grasping slipshod rifles, eyes staring unseeing at the moon. Most are barely old enough to be considered men, fighting a war they didn't start and probably didn't understand.

_It doesn't seem fair that this was their life._

They find Ashwood at the point where the village becomes jungle. Crouching by the tree line, Ashwood uses a flashlight to study footprints in the damp ground. At the sight of Tony and Nick, Ashwood plasters a broad grin on his face.

"I didn't expect the sand crab and the narc to have a pair of brass ones," he says.

Half-smiling, Tony gives it right back. "Did you peek while we were sleeping?

When Tony stares expectantly at Ashwood, the SEAL chuckles before it turns into hearty guffaws. He clasps his hand on Tony's back so hard that it rattles the former agent's bones. Tony just half-smiles.

Unamused, Grange clears his throat. "What do we have, Husker?"

Going rigid, Ashwood gets back to business. He gestures to the footprints with his flashlight. "It's not good, Ranger. There's a lot of footprints. I estimate six, maybe seven, hostiles. From the looks of things, there's two hostages and – " he swings the flashlight to where the footprints disappear into the jungle "- they've got a decent head start."

"How much?" Tony asks.

Ashwood shrugs. "An hour. Maybe more."

Grange swears violently under his breath.

"Then why we standing around?" Nick blurts out.

Ashwood smirks. "That's a good question, Moneypenny."

That nickname earns Ashwood a glare from Nick, but he is smart enough not to waste time with arguing. Tony adjusts the strap on his M4 to pull it tighter to his body. Nothing could be more dangerous than heading into enemy territory when they knew the lay of the land and had guerilla warfare on their side. At least, Tony tells himself, the SEALs might have the element of surprise. If they can catch up.

"If shit goes sideways," Grange says, "proceed with an E and E to get the civvies back here."

Ashwood gives a mock salute. "Aye, aye captain."

Grange glares at him.

"Oh yeah, that's right." Ashwood's grin broadens. "Aye, aye HMFIC."

"Let's move," Grange says.

With the order, Ashwood leads the way into the jungle. When Grange gestures for Tony and Nick to move, they follow the order. Grange pulls up the rear.

As they walk, Nick leans over to whisper: "Say, Tony, what's does 'E and E' mean?"

"Run like hell," Tony says flatly.

"Ah, yeah. That sounds wonderful," Nick says, mostly to himself.

The intense moonlight barely penetrates the jungle's heavy undercanopy. At the front of the search party, Ashwood tracks the set of footprints. Grange uses his night vision goggles to keep watch for any rebel who might be lurking in the wilderness.

Tony and Nick stand shoulder-to-shoulder with their weapons raised. Even though the M4's warm metal gives Tony comfort, he knows he can't nail a shot in the pitch dark. No amount of living at the range and training could give him night vision. And as he grows older, he finds himself faltering in the darkness more and more. If he'd stayed at NCIS, it probably would have benched him sooner rather than later.

_I guess I should've eaten more carrots._

Nick's voice pulls Tony right out of his thoughts.

"Do you have a movie?" he is asking.

Eyebrows raised, Tony looks over.

Nick fumbles. "McGee said you had a movie for every occasion. Kinda like a Hallmark store."

"That sounds like something Tim would say." Considering what best fits hiking through the jungle wasteland, Tony settles on a classic. _"Platoon._ Probably Charlie Sheen's best movie before he went bat shit crazy. _"_

Nick tilts his head. "I thought you were going to say _Tropic Thunder."_

"Because you think we look like Jack Black and Ben Stiller?" Tony tries his best not to laugh.

In spite of himself, Nick does. "Because we're a couple of guys pretending to be soldiers."

" _I don't read the script. The script reads me,"_ Tony says.

Before Nick can reply, Ashwood turns back and whispers: _"This is insane. Are you really going to abandon the movie? We're supposed to be a unit."_

_"Suck my unit,"_ Grange interjects.

Stopping dead in their tracks, the group turns to look at Grange. He flips up his night vision goggles.

Crossing his arms, he glares back. "What? I happen to like Ben Stiller. Get moving."

When they keep moving, Tony throws an _"I'm not an ambi-turner"_ into the darkness. The line from _Zoolander_ has everyone chuckling, even Grange. After their laughter dissipates into the night, they move in silence until Ashwood freezes. He drops to his knees by a lump in the grass.

"I got something, Ranger," he says. "It's a body. Two of them, actually."

Tony's heart clenches. He grips the stock of his weapon until his knuckles go white as though it could keep him in the moment. If Tim is dead, he'll…fuck, he doesn't know what he'll do.

"Looks like it might be a rebel," Ashwood continues. "Fleming, can you take a look?"

Everyone moves to let Tony have a full view of the bodies. Even Nick hangs back, his body turned to face the jungle as though he can't even look. Tony's heart lodges itself in his chest as he prepares himself to see Tim's body. He has lost far too people he cared about. His mother. Kate. Paula Cassidy. Ziva.

Ashwood passes Tony the flashlight.

Tony flicks the beam over the body furthest from him. It's a rebel with a white shirt that's blood red over a gunshot wound to the gut.

Then, he highlights the closest corpse. Grey shirt. Green pants.

Nausea kicks up in Tony's throat as his heart races. He wants to bolt into the jungle and never look back, but he forces himself to stay planted here.

The beam of the flashlight slithers up to the corpse's face. The right side of the man's face is bashed in, turning a grotesque purple that is mottled in death. His skin is grey and ashen. But his hair is black, jet black. His jaw square, features sharp. The dead man looks nothing like Tim's soft, kind features.

_Thank G-d, it's not him._

Relief drops Tony to his knees.

_We're not too late._

"Is that…" Nick can't seem to bring himself to say Tim's name.

Something about the dead man's injury catches Tony's attention. When he carefully inspects the wound, Grange draws closer. He delicately places his hand on Tony's shoulder. His fingers are barely there like a butterfly's wings on a gentle breeze.

"Is that him, Fleming?" he says cautiously.

Tony shakes his head. "It's not McGee."

Behind him, he hears Nick muttering something that might be a prayer while Ashwood turns back to scanning the jungle. Grange starts to move too.

"But I think McGee did this," Tony says.

Grange turns back. "Explain."

"A former teammate taught us this move. It's Mossad training." When Grange gestures for more information, Tony stands up to demonstrate the move with the butt of his M4. "Smash the gun against the jaw to disorient the target. Then, the temple to neutralize them. If they're lucky, they wake up in a few hours. If they're not, well…" He gestures back at the body with his gun.

Grange shakes his head. "You said Bogey Two was the predictable one."

"Did you expect him to play the good little hostage until the SEALs show up?"

Grange doesn't reply.

Tony keeps going. "I would expect him to. Unless…"

He uses the flashlight to scan the ground. Footprints are spread out across the area like there was a fight. A fucking big one. Two sets—one large, one smaller like a child's—are pressed into the mud like their creators are running. Pressed over top of them are four sets of large, heavy boots.

Grange steps closer. "Unless what?"

"He found something he thought was worth risking his life for." Tony shines the flashlight on the child's footprints. "Or it could be someone."

"So you're thinking he is on the run with one of the rebels," Grange says flatly.

Tony nods. Even though he knows how ludicrous it sounds, that Tim would tear off into the jungle with one of his captors. But if Gibbs and Tim foiled the kidnapping of a group of boys, there was no telling who could've been in the camp with them. Another hostage like them. A boy taken to be a foot soldier.

_What else could it be?_

"How far is he willing to go to protect this person?" Grange asks.

"Whatever it takes," Tony says honestly.

Grange makes a _tsk_ ing noise. "Bogey Two is supposed to be the easy one. He shouldn't be kicking my pucker factor off the fucking charts."

Tony crooks a smile. "A lot of people tend to underestimate McGee."

Grange shoots him a look. "He isn't the only one, Fleming."


	11. Chapter 11

Tim and Manzo run until their legs can no longer carry their weight. And somehow, they keep moving. They keep putting one foot in front of the other. They keep diving deeper into the knee-jungle brush.

They lost the moon hours ago and with it, the light guiding them. In this section of the jungle, the trees are dense, the plant life overbearing. The night is so ink black they are forced to navigate by touch alone. Tree branches and ferns rake against their cheeks like skeletal fingers. One caresses Tim's hair like a touch from beyond the grave. He bats against it with the rifle.

He hugs the weapon closer to his chest. It reflects the night's residual heat as though to say it will never leave his side, not even in the final moments. It is comforting, in an odd way.

The further they trek, the thicker the air grows with the promise of rain. That heady scent of damp earth and old leaves fills his nostrils. The smell reminds Tim of his childhood scouting in the woods. It means something—at least, he _thinks_ it does—but he can't remember what. Maybe it has something to do with their position in relation to the mountain. He doesn't know whether it means they're coming or going.

Hell, it would be easier if Tim could see the stars. He might be able to find a familiar constellation and use it to lead them back to Las Rexachitas. That's assuming he knew which direction they are heading. And fuck, he doesn't even know that either.

Tim jams the rifle butt into his shoulder. Frustration and self-loathing don't help here. They never do, but he always gives in anyway. But here, it's worse. In the pitch-black jungle on the edge of the world with a bunch of blood-thirsty rebels hunting his ass.

_How did I end up here?_

He grinds his teeth.

_Because I didn't think about the consequences. One time._

He jams the rifle into his shoulder again.

_One fucking time._

Behind Tim, he hears Manzo drop to his knees. Based on the slowing _thud_ of his steps, Manzo has been flagging for some time now. But now, it is different. The sound of sniffling and a snot being wiped on skin comes before a hiccupped sob.

Tim turns back. "Do you need to rest, Manzo?"

"No, Tim. I am fine." His voice shakes like a little boy trying to be brave.

"Then what?" Tim asks.

"I kill." Manzo's voice cracks.

Tim follows the direction of Manzo's voice. Once he finds Manzo, Tim crouches down by his side. Even though he can't see Manzo, Tim knows the boy is sobbing into his hands. Tim wraps a protective arm around Manzo's shoulder and draws him closer.

"I kill." Manzo takes a shaky breath.

"You saved my life, Manzo," Tim says, reassuringly. "You did what you needed to."

"It not matter. I still kill." Then, a tiny, child-like voice: "You kill, Tim?"

"Only when I have no choice." Tim considers for a moment before adding: "I would do what I have to for my friends. Including you."

"We bad, Tim. We bad." Manzo sniffles. "You think G-d listen still?"

Rubbing the back of his neck, Tim sighs. "I'd like to think so."

Then Manzo whispers to himself in hurried Spanish. To Tim, it sounds like a Hail Mary. Penitence for the life he stole and entreaties for the salvation he doesn't believe he deserves.

Hugging Manzo tighter, Tim wonders after which kill he lost that need for forgiveness, that need for absolution, that need for mercy. Instead, he feels like he wants to crawl out of his own skin and stop existing for a while. But after everything here, all he feels is a nagging emptiness as though his chest turned hollow. Shoved deep down somewhere he can't reach lies a deep, gnawing pain.

"You think we go home?" Manzo asks suddenly.

The question catches Tim off-guard. "I don't know. I hope."

When Manzo starts praying again, Tim's thoughts turn to Delilah and the baby. He fiddles with his wedding ring, knowing they need to get moving. Soon. Not now, but soon. For a moment, he lets himself wander through the labyrinth of baby's life one more time. Just in case he doesn't make it, he wants to imagine what it would've felt like. _All of it._

He opens his eyes and says, "Manzo, we need to go."

As they trudge onward, Tim's thoughts sneak after him. Even though he tries to ignore it, his heart grows heavy, leaden, weighty. It fills the hollowness of his chest like an anchor. Delilah and his unborn child after his impending death consume his thoughts. How she will react when she hears the news. How the baby will grow up without a dad. What she will tell the baby about him.

His love for them aches like a phantom limb.

_-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-_

The minutes tick by like hours until Tony's last bits of energy evaporates into the wisps of the morning fog. Until his body feels as though it weighs a thousand pounds. Until his entire existence dissolves into the simple act of putting one foot in front of the other.

_Right._

Tony knows the mission is suicide for someone his age. Fuck, it's suicide for someone any age.

_Left._

Twenty clicks in the fucking jungle to the rebel camp. And then, just for the hell of it, seven more.

_Right._

They lost Tim and the rebels' tracks a click ago. Give or take. It might've been two. Now, they follow plants, trampled and ground flat by heavy feet. Nick asks Grange whether an animal could be responsible. Tony doesn't want to consider that.

_Left._

Tony stares at the back of Nick's head. The younger man presses forward like he is barely even tired, like he could handle another twenty clicks without breaking a sweat.

_Right._

Tony feels like he might keel over right here.

_Left._

His limbs are heavy and sluggish. His gear might as well weigh a thousand pounds. Not to mention, the air still rages with the heat of the day. Even the metal of the M4A1 burns in the night air.

_Right._

Tony tries to mirror the Nick's dogged determination and superhuman stamina. Tries to mimic the straight posture and easy movement through the darkened foliage.

_Left._

Tony nearly faceplants over a tree root. Behind him, Grange clucks his tongue. Tony holds his hand up to say that he's fine, that they can't turn back yet because they haven't found Tim. And Tony won't be the reason their mission went FUBAR.

_Right._

Sweat soaks through Tony's shirt until the fabric can't hold anymore. Just when he thought he couldn't get any wetter, tat raindrops start to fall from the sky. They roll down Tony's neck straight onto his back. He turns up his collar, but it doesn't help.

_Left._

With one hand on his helmet, Tony cranes his neck towards the undercanopy. There is a patch of sky, barely visible through the fat leaves. There, the inky black of night melds into a delicate pink and orange at the edges. The leaves melt a soft grey as they rebel against the angry darkness. Through the rain, the colors dance like a rainbow. It might be beautiful, if Tony had the energy to marvel at it.

_If only we find the end, we'll get that pot of gold. Too bad, it's just a myth._

Grange clears his throat. Tony gets moving again.

Swallowing hard, he knows what is coming soon. The part where Grange calls for an end to the mission. Where he tells everyone they're turning back. Where he says they've tried their best. Where he says that Tim isn't coming home today. Not now, not ever.

Tony protectively clutches his weapon to his chest. His body goes rigid as though to say _We can keep going because I'm fine. I'm fucking fine._

Grange stops suddenly. Tony swivels to cover him, but the SEAL is removing his night vision goggles. He stashes them in his pack. When he straightens up, he regards the jungle with a deep frown. He sighs like a man about to issue a death sentence.

"Huh." Ashwood's voice carries. "Huh."

Grange's expression turns hopeful. "You got something, Husker?"

"I don't know, Ranger." Turning back, Ashwood shrugs. "Come check it out."

When they cluster around Ashwood, Tony isn't quite sure what they are supposed to be looking at. The jungle stretches out around them as though it reaches clear around the world. In front of them, the patch of flattened plant continues. Ashwood drops to his knees by a spot where something—or someone—made a hard right into the foliage. A few broken branches vanish into the underbrush.

_If Tim were running for his life, he lose the rebels and turn tail. Just like Gibbs and I taught him._

Tony holds his breath.

_But why did he wait so long?_

Grange crouches to pick up a branch. "Anything could've broken those branches. Like a – "

"Sloth," Nick interrupts.

Ashwood's brow furrows. "They like to hang out in the trees like Tarzan." Then, he cracks a broad grin and elbows Tony in the ribs. " _Me Tarzan. You Fleming."_

Both he and Nick crack up while Tony stares at a barely smashed flower. From the looks of things, whomever went that way didn't want anyone to notice.

Grange clears his throat. "I was _going_ to say jaguar or leopard."

Nick's face goes sheet white. "Can we just say that it was a sloth?"

"Is Moneypenny scared of an itty-bitty kitty?" Grinning wickedly, Ashwood meows for effect. "Does a litterbox tap out your pucker factor? You won't want to visit my girlfriend. She's got a pair of Persians."

Nick presses his lips together. Shifts his weight. "My ex-girlfriend's dad was a drug dealer. Real nasty bastard. He used to feed his rival cartel members to his jaguars: Bonnie and Clyde."

Ashwood gapes at him for a moment. "Well, shit. Way to ruin it, Moneypenny. You – "

"Fine," Grange interrupts, "we'll say sloths made these tracks if it'll shut everyone up. Can we get moving or do you need to compare notes on catnip?"

"We're good, HMFIC." Ashwood grins again. "I mean, Ranger."

With an exasperated growl, Grange takes the lead. When the rest start to head away from the broken branches, Tony remains rooted to that spot. He stares into the distance as far as he can, but there isn't anything there. He pinches the bridge of his nose. Why did he really think would happen? That Tim would just pop out from behind a tree and say, _Tag, you're it?_

_Tim went that way. He_ had _to._

Tony knows how crazy it sounds. He says it anyway.

"McGee went this way," Tony blurts out.

Instantly by his side, Nick searches the ground for some unseen clue. He touches a flattened flower. Grange and Ashwood join them, scanning the trees as though Tony sees something they can't.

"What makes you say that, Fleming?" Grange asks.

"It's how Gibbs taught us. If you can't fight, run like hell until you lose 'em. Then, fight when you've got the upper hand. And if you know you can't win, double back to regroup." Tony gestures at the trees with his gun. "Either McGee is planning to take a stand out there or he is trying to find his way back to camp."

Nick nods like a bobblehead. "It makes sense. I remember Gibbs telling us something like that before."

Grange and Ashwood share a confused glance.

"The second part sounds like an E and E," Ashwood says. "Going for a shootout at the OK Corral must be a Marine thing."

Grange crosses his arms as he considers Tony's point. His face turns stony. His eyes skirt from one path to the other and back again. He doesn't speak for what feels like forever. Eventually, he looks at Tony out of the corner of his eye.

"How sure are you, Fleming?" he asks.

Tony cracks a nervous smile. "Like 95%. Give or take."

Grange sets his jaw. "I don't have to tell you what happens if you're wrong."

Licking his lips, Tony almost shakes his head. Almost tells Grange that he was crazy to even consider the notion. While he doesn't want to think about it, Tony knows—he _fucking_ knows—what will happen to Tim if he is wrong. At best, Tim might be ransomed off to the highest bidder or come home in a body bag. At worst, they will never find a single trace of him.

He adjusts his hold on the M4A1. Then, he meets Grange's gaze. Despite the trepidation in his heart, Tony slips back into the agent mask he wore all too well. Easygoing, composed, relaxed, confident.

"I've bet my own life on worse odds."

_-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-_

Tim crouches low against the tree trunk. Night slowly melts away, surrendering the protective darkness to the day. Animals rise like the sun, slowly and unhurriedly. They caw and scream and shriek away the last traces of sleep. Thin layers of wisp-white fog hug the jungle floor like a well-fitting blanket. The air is so humid Tim can barely breathe.

_That's it. All the moisture in the air._

He exhales through his teeth.

_It is definitely not the people following us._

Closing his eyes, Tim strains his ears for the men hunting them. Only moments ago—when he sent Manzo to hide in the brush—he heard the men lumbering through the brush. Their steps were different than the animals. Heavy. Purposeful. Violent tremors. Each one sent his heart further into throat.

With his rifle nestled in the crook of his arm, Tim tries to psyche himself up for the impending confrontation. His mind races at a thousand miles an hour. Every scenario ends with him dead or captive again. He doesn't think about what happens after that.

He inhales raggedly.

_I never thought I'd go out like this._

Branches snap to the left. The men draw nearer.

Holding his breath, he hopes they pass him. Footsteps echo to his left. One…no wait, two men. Dead ahead is another. To the right, one more. Tim's stomach drops. From the sound of things, they are setting up a perimeter so he and Manzo can't escape. He smiles sadly to himself.

_I always thought I would die an old man._

The footsteps are mere yards away now, but his pursuers are still hidden in the trees. Tim disengages the rifle's safety. If this is his last stand, he'll go out guns blazing just like he and Gibbs tried. If he can keep them away from Manzo, losing his life will be worth it.

For now, he has the element of surprise.

_Delilah, I'm sorry. So sorry._

Tim leaps out of his hiding spot. His rifle is raised, eyes searching for a target. To the left, he catches a glimpse of a baby-faced figure in fatigues before he vanishes into the brush.

Tim wheels back to the right. Sets his sights on a tall man with a buzz cut in fatigues.

Behind Tim, Baby Face rips Manzo out of his hiding spot. The boy comes up fighting. He grips Baby Face's arm with both hands as he fights with all of his might. When Baby Face tries to grab him, Manzo sinks his teeth into the soldier's forearm. A curse fills the jungle.

Tim tries to line up his aim on Baby Face.

Out of the corner of his eye, Buzz Cut lifts his weapon. Tim turns back to him. When he finds his aim, his finger tightens on the trigger.

"Probie!"

The nickname rips through the morning like an explosion. The whole jungle goes as silent as a grave. Even the animals don't have a response. For a moment, Tim thinks he might've gone deaf.

His hold on the weapon wavers. He takes his eyes off Buzz Cut.

A split second later, Buzz Cut tackles Tim at the knees. Tim goes down hard, landing on the ground with a _smack_. Something in his shoulder pops. The pain radiates down his arm like wildfire. Landing on top of him, Buzz Cut's weight sucks the breath out of Tim's lungs. Before Tim can react, Buzz Cut grabs his wrists and pins his hands by his head.

Tim bares his teeth, curses. But he has _nothing_ to find back with.

"Fleming! Is this him?" Buzz Cut barks.

"Yeah. That's him." There's a laugh, incredulous and hysterical. "That's McGee."

At the sound of his name, Tim stills. He opens his eyes to find a surprising sight. Buzz Cut is tall with a swimmer's build and a square jaw. His expression softens. Releasing Tim's wrists, he pulls the agent into a sitting position. Tim blinks owlishly at the trio surrounding him. They all wear a uniform of green fatigues, bullet proof vest, helmets, and green and black face paint.

_Despite what he said, Vance sent the SEALs. Thank G-d._

"MPO Grange." When Buzz Cut shakes Tim's hand, the agent is too overwhelmed to shake it back. "You're a hard man to find, Agent McGee. A _very_ hard man to find."

Dumbfounded, Tim just mumbles, "I'm sorry…"

Grange shrugs. "I'm used to it."

"See, Ranger?" Baby Face says, laughing. "What'd I say? PFM. Just like always."

"That smart ass over there with the hostile would be Ashwood," Grange gestures at Baby Face.

Nearby, Ashwood manages to subdue Manzo into a chokehold. The boy's arms rest around the elbow at his neck while he twists his body to escape. Despite his efforts, the SEAL barely works to keep him still. Tim scrambles to his feet to break them up. He holds out his hands, pleading.

"That's Manzo." His voice sounds strident to his own ears. "He helped me. You need to let him go. He is one of the boys we were trying to save."

When Ashwood shoots Grange a questioning glance, the older man nods. Ashwood releases Manzo, who stares at the SEALs like alien lifeforms. He mutters something in Spanish and almost instantly, Ashwood prattles back in the same tongue. Relief washes into Manzo's eyes.

One of the SEALs takes a step closer. He gets into Tim's personal space. While it makes Tim's skin crawl, there is something oddly comforting about his presence. Tim struggles to place him. His face is familiar in that you-know-you-know-him-from-somewhere-kind of way. Tim hopes it isn't someone he accused of murder in the past. Fuck, he hopes the SEAL isn't someone he _arrested_ for murder.

"Tim," he whispers.

Tim's chest tightens. At that moment, he recognizes the eyes of his partner, his mentor, his friend. Concern dances in them like Tim is made of glass and just as breakable.

He chokes out a strangled: " _Tony?"_

With his teeth gleaming through the face paint when he grins, Tony starts: "Out of all the jungles, in all of the world – "

"You did not just rip off Casablanca, man," another familiar voice interrupts.

Tony turns to him. "So what if I did?"

Tim reels. " _Torres_?"

"One in the same." Nick laughs. "Where else would I be?"

"Las Rexachitas. Ciudad del Este. DC." He counts on his fingers before he stops. "What are _you_ doing _here,_ Tony? You should be in Paris. With Tali."

When Tony joins Tim, he puts his hand on the younger man's shoulder. "Helping save your ass, obviously. You don't get to escape fatherhood that easily."

Even though Tony's words are meant to be a joke—a bit of levity like they were in bullpen—they don't come off like it. The weight of them hit Tim like a bunch in the gut. Everything he went through and everything that is coming hits him full force. An errant tear sneaks down his cheek. Tim stubbornly shoves it away, but it doesn't stop a few more from coming. His breath catches.

Tony chokes up too.

He pulls Tim into a one-armed hug. "It's okay, Tim. You're safe."

Tim can't find his voice.

"You're going home. You'll get to meet that little barfy, gassy, screaming monster that'll make you forget what sleep is. And you'll drink so much coffee that you won't remember your own name..."

Tony rambles about the joys of parenting that are unknown until the baby arrives. Tim nods to keep the tears at bay. Somewhere in there, Nick wraps his arms around them. The SEALS give them space until Grange deems it time to leave.

On the way, Tim whispers: "Thank you, Tony."

Tony half-smiles. "I didn't have a choice."

"What do you mean?" Tim's face is still shell-shocked.

"You don't leave your family behind."


	12. Chapter 12

When they get back to the SEAL base in Las Rexachitas, the sun stands at half-mast. The late afternoon sunlight stretches their shadows into those of giants. The hike back didn't seem quite as long as the one to find Tim and Gibbs. They took the trek in silence with only a grunted command from Grange to change their direction. Tony glanced over his shoulder constantly. Just to make sure Tim was still there, that he hadn't disappeared into the mess of jungle trees.

The SEALs' makeshift base is nearly empty. Only a skeleton crew of SEALs wait for the stragglers. The rest are still cleaning up the remains of the jungle village while a few accompanied Gibbs to….

"Where is Gibbs?" Tony asks.

Grange is already packing his guns into his locker. "Already helo'd out of Las Rexachitas. He should in the infirmary of the USS Charleston by now."

"And?"

Grange's shrug is slight. "That's all I know."

Tony nods. Tim just stares at the set-up with wide eyes like he can't decide if he is dreaming or not. When the agent's stomach growls loudly, Nick claps his hands.

"Let's eat," he says. "I'm starving."

Grange offers what he considers to be the best MREs. Tim scarfs two of them before eating most of Tony's and some of Nick's. While Nick tries to chase Tim's fork own, Tony doesn't have the heart to deny his friend the sustenance. Not to mention, the days in the wilderness still leave his stomach in knots and the chicken pot pie MRE tastes like sawdust.

After a call to Delilah, Tim crashes on one of the cots and sleeps like the dead. Nick lays down on a bunk as well, asleep in an instant. This is the part of the mission Tony always struggled with: being finished with the job even after it is done. The effects of the job linger with him long after the suspects are arrested, and the case closed. He never learned how to let things go.

Now, he fiddles with a cup of coffee as he watches the SEALs pack up their belongings. They celebrate their job well done, hostages safe and targets neutralized. They prepare to head back to the ship for a quick debrief, then back to their ordinary lives.

For Tony, there is no post-mission afterglow like he used to experience when he was an agent. In its place, there is an exhaustion that dives deep into his bones. Except when he lays down on an open cot, he can't bring himself to sleep. His mind won't stop turning at the _what ifs._

_I could've died out there. What would have happened to Tali?_

He presses his arm over his eyes.

_But could I have lived with myself if something happened to Tim or Gibbs?_

He has no answer. Deep down, he knows he will never find one. It's a damned if you do and damned if you don't situation. Even though none of it matters now, the possibility of the _what ifs_ threaten to gnaw him apart from the inside out.

Grange appears in Tony's vision, wearing a wry smile.

"I patched a call through for you, DiNozzo," he says. "I figured you weren't asleep anyway."

Tony pushes himself up. "How did you know?"

"From what I've seen, you don't sleep." Grange's smile widens just a bit as he helps Tony to his feet. "I've got two boys. I know how it is."

"Yeah?" Tony asks, tilting his head.

His eyes skirt away. "Here, all you think about is them. At home, it's always the next mission."

"No rest for the wicked, huh?"

"Wicked only depends which side of the coin you're on."

And with that, Tony climbs to his feet. After he leads Tony to a small laptop, Grange disappears to help the SEALs pack their footlockers. They slap each other the back, whooping and laughing. For a fleeting moment, Tony aches for that feeling of being a team again. No, not that. He wished he knew what a _good job_ and a whack on the back felt like. All too often, the timbre of Gibbs' grunt told him how he did.

His eyes land on the computer screen, expecting to find Gibbs. Instead, his father's pixelated face is there. Senior squints at Tony. Then, his eyes slowly widen and his mouth falls open.

"Junior, is that you?" he asks.

Behind him, Tony's small apartment looks like a Disney princess hurricane blew through leaving sparkly, glittery devastation in its wake. Tali stands on the couch— _no wait, she is jumping on the couch—_ in a bright yellow Belle costume dress. Her raucous giggles fill the silence.

"What happened to my house?" Tony gasps. "And what is Tali – "

Senior interrupts him. "Your house, Junior? A better question is what happened to you?"

And for the first time, Tony catches a glimpse of himself in the computer screen. A week—plus or minus a few days, he isn't sure anymore—old beard hangs on a face that is still covered with sweat and grime from the jungle. He touches his cheeks, not surprised by the bags under his eyes. To try to improve his appearance, he straightens his sweat slicked hair. The grease makes it stand straight up.

"Where in the hell are you, Junior?" Senior asks.

Tony shakes his head. "I can't really talk about it, Dad."

Senior's expression tightens. Something fleeting, like he _finally_ might just understand what his son—his own flesh and blood—is capable of, flashes across his face.

"Your friends. They're safe?" When Tony nods, he continues: "And you? Are you okay?"

Tony smiles awkwardly. He never knew how to take Senior's concern. "I'm fine."

"Great. Wonderful. That's great." After breathing a sigh of relief, he switches gears. "Tali and I have been having a wonderful time, Junior."

When he shifts to the side, Tony sees Tali again. Now, she's sitting on the back of the couch and kicking her legs to make her dress flap like a flag. On the big screen, _Frozen_ plays for what is probably the millionth time since he left. Even though he hates it, Tony wishes he could be there to watch it with her.

"She should be in bed, Dad," Tony says. "It's after 10."

Senior grins. "What's the point in being a grandfather if I can't bend the rules a little?"

"Dad," Tony says warningly. "You're supposed to – "

At that moment, Tali's head snaps towards them. When her eyes land on Tony, she rushes over. She scrambles onto Senior's lap to block out his face. She leans onto the computer. Her face takes up nearly the entire screen. There's that telltale red stain on her baby teeth, clinging to her upper lip. Senior smuggled Hawaiin Punch back into the apartment after his last trip to the States. Tony is going to kill his father when he gets home.

"Abba!" she cries. "Abba!"

Tony chokes up. "Hey Tali. I miss you. How are you?"

When she settles back onto Senior's lap, her gaze turns confused. Tony holds up his hands to sign: _Hello, my love. I missed you._

She smiles. _Home, Abba. Home._

_Soon, my love._ He looks at her sternly. _It's past bedtime._

When she looks at him again, something passes over her face. Like she understands that he can't do anything from where he is. There is a glint in her eye, an arch to her eyebrow that looks so much like Ziva. Tony's heart aches at the sight. Then, she smirks like Ziva used to. She wriggles from Senior's lap and vanishes back to the couch. Her curls bounce as she starts jumping on the sofa again.

Senior edges back into the frame. "You've got a spitfire on your hands."

"I know, Dad." Tony pinches the bridge of his nose. "That's why you aren't supposed to break the routine."

"You need to be like Elsa, Junior ."

Tony looks up. _"What?"_

With perfect timing, the movie starts at the same time as Senior does in an off-key drawl. "Let it go! Let it go!" Grinning broadly, Senior asks: "When are you coming back?"

When Grange moves to Tony's side, he half-smiles. "Soon, Dad. I've got a few things to finish up."

Senior eyes the military man warily. "Be careful, Junior."

"Always am, Dad."

And with that, Grange cuts the communication line. He closes the laptop before turning to Tony. Their eyes meet for a long moment.

"When am I heading home?" Tony asks.

"Chatter is indicating it isn't safe for you to fly from here. The rebels are gunning for us." Grange apprises Tony's fatigues and messy beard. "And for all intents, you are one of us. So you and McGee are headed for the USS Charleston in the morning. From there, you're headed to DC for a debrief."

"That's a bit out of the way."

Grange shrugs. "It's not my call, DiNozzo."

"What about Torres?" Tony asks, looking away.

"He is staying with me and Ashwood to relocate Manzo and his family to a safe location."

"I'm glad to hear that. I'm sure Tim will be too." Tony nods appreciatively. "When I get back to Paris, I'll send what I can."

When Grange openly studies Tony, it makes the former agent's skin crawl. He shifts his weight, looks back to his sleeping friends. Tim face the wall with his back to Tony while Nick sleeps face down. Right now, Tony would give anything for sleep.

"Not a lot of men would risk his life for his friends," Grange says candidly.

Tony laughs. "All in a day's work, right?"

Grange reaches into his pocket to remove something small. When he hands it over, Tony is surprised at the official SEAL patch. The threads are frayed and colors muted. His eyes snap up at Grange.

"I figured you should have your own Budweiser," Grange says.

Tony blinks. "Why?"

"After that performance, you're an honorary shellback now."

_-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-_

Before the sun even rises the next morning, a Navy helo takes Tony, Tim, and a few SEALs to the USS Charleston. Once they're over the open water, Tony marvels how the dark sea stretches out in every direction into the blackness. To the east, a sliver of yellow slices through the darkness like a knife.

Tony forgot about Tim's motion sickness. While the younger man retches into a sick bag, Tony tries to ignore the acrid smell of vomit emanating from next to him. When he leans back in the seat, Tim's hair is sweat slicked, his eyes tired and open face wrought with apology. Tony claps his hand on Tim's shoulder.

"I can't believe they didn't have any Dramamine," Tim gasps out between heaves. "I can't – " The retching cuts hm off again.

"It's okay, McGee," Tony says because, really it is.

Outside of the helo, the thin strip of yellow slowly turns into thick slashes of orange and red as the sunrise begins. The inky black slowly recedes into an explosion of colors. In the distance, a pinprick of grey stands out against the surrounding stretch blue. As they approach, a ship slowly takes shape. In what feels the blink of an eye, the helo lands on the ship's helipad.

As soon as they disembark, Tim bolts for the edge of the boat. He clasps the railing with knuckles that are as white as his face. The wind picks up, tousling his brown hair. His back shudders with every breath.

Tony hangs back with one of the SEALs, who eyes Tim like he's made of glass.

"What the fuck is wrong with him?" the SEAL asks.

"Seasick," Tony explains.

The SEAL's eyebrows jump. "An NCIS agent who gets seasick, huh?"

Tony nods.

"That's a helluva thing," he says.

"Yeah, we'll catch up," Tony says, nodding. "He might need some fresh air."

"Sure thing."

Then, the SEAL leaves Tony alone on deck with the sailors who are busy clearing the helo. They move around Tony in carefully choregraphed movements like he isn't even there. And for a moment, he wonders whether he really is. When one with a fuel hose begs, "Can you move, sir? Please," Tony scrambles to Tim's side.

Tim is still hanging over the edge, heaving.

Tony leans his elbows against the railing. The sea air fills his lungs with every breath. He inhales greedily, knowing there won't be many more times like this. The sea spray clings to his face and beard, drizzles on the fatigues he still wears. Around him, the blue ocean stretches on forever. There is no land in sight.

Tim glances over weakly. His green eyes are as clear as the sky. His pale skin as smooth as he could make it with a borrowed razor and no mirror. He wears a navy blue jumpsuit from the helo pilot because none of the SEALs were the same size.

"Is there anything left?" Tony asks.

Tim smiles meekly. "I don't think so."

They stand there in silence for a long time. It feels a lot like the night when Tony was packing up his apartment to move to Paris, the night before he gave his official resignation to Director Vance. Tim had spent hours with him after Tony tucked Tali into his bed. Even though Tony's mind was made up, Tim hadn't tried to change it. He had been there, a silent support, listening to Tony talk and helping him pack up his entire life into boxes. And now, Tony feels like he is repaying the favor.

"How is Paris, Tony?" Tim asks suddenly.

Tony keeps his eyes on the horizon. "It's been good for me. For Tali." He bristles. "For us."

He feels Tim's gaze on him, asking for more than what he gave. Tony doesn't have it. He takes a steadying breath. A conversation in person is nothing like the weekly e-mails or biweekly Skype calls with Tali screaming at _Hi, Teem Maggie and DeeDee_ over and over in the background. It's deeper and more intense. Here, he can't crawl inside himself. He can't hide behind a mask. Despite that, Tony forgot how much he likes being in Tim's company.

"I enjoy teaching more than I thought would," he says.

Tim breathes. "Really?"

"Yeah, I feel a lot like Q from the Bond movies." Tony considers for a moment. "But David Llewelyn from _Goldeneye._ Not John Cleese from _Die Another Day."_

"Tell me about it," Tim says like Tony's voice is keeping him here. Here, in the moment.

"I don't like to lecture. So, I bring my teaching materials to the classroom and leave them out on the table. I let my students pick up the weapons so they know how they _feel._ Once they understand how they fit into their hands, students can learn the specs." Tony shrugs. "Otherwise, it's just straight memorization. What's the good in that?"

"You sound a lot like Abby and Ducky." Tim smirks. "Do your guns talk back?"

"Not yet. I'll let you know if they." He reconsiders. " _When_ they do." Tony matches Tim's broad grin. "Tell me about NCIS. Is it still treating you well?"

Tim's face turns drawn as he looks back at the water. "Better than I thought it would, yes. But I have to admit, I don't know how you kept going for so long."

Tony blinks. "Kept what?"

"Being senior field agent. There are tons of paperwork, crazy hours, staffing requirements, and progress reports. Not to mention, I barely keep up with the management stuff." He wrinkles his nose. "Did you know I screwed up the team's pepper spray recert? I don't remember ever doing that before."

"I mighta fudged that one once or twice." When Tim stares him down, Tony crumbles. "Okay, fine. Every single time. I figured you and Bishop wouldn't appreciate a face full of pepper spray. And well, Ziva probably would've knifed me for that." At the mention of her name, Tony stiffens slightly.

Tim tilts his head in a question that he can't voice.

"She is definitely dead, Tim," Tony whispers.

"Ah," is all Tim manages.

Tony keeps his eyes fixed on the sea. "Before I settled in Paris, I drug Tali all over Israeli because I couldn't accept it. Even though Mossad told me what happened, I couldn't…I wouldn't believe it. It wasn't until I sat at her grave with Tali that I knew I had to accept it or lose myself looking for a ghost." When Tim opens his mouth to speak, Tony continues: "Did you know they have a tradition in Israeli where they leave stones on the headstones? I left one from you and Gibbs."

It takes Tim a long time to say: "Thanks."

Tony hitches a nod. Then, he changes the subject. "How has Gibbs been? Still building boats?"

"In his basement with a handle of bourbon." Tim lets out a strangled laugh. "He stopped talking about things other than work out after you left. I still don't know what happened with you two."

"Neither do I."

When Tim shoots him a sidelong glance, Tony licks his lips. "When I came back from Shanghai, he froze me out. It was like I did something I wasn't supposed to do. Or didn't do something that I was supposed to. I never knew what went wrong. In the end, it didn't matter anymore when Tali came along."

Leaning his elbows against the railing, Tim mirrors Tony's stance. They're both hunched over like old men on a park bench somewhere. Before Tali showed up, that's how Tony pictured he and Tim would end up. Crotchety men growing old together like Gibbs and Fornell. A perfect marriage made in hell.

Over the horizon, the sun creeps higher. It makes the surf of waves lapping against of the boat gleam. The sky is clear. Everywhere Tony looks, the world is blue.

"How is it?" Tim asks quietly.

"Paris is great," Tony says before he realizes that isn't what Tim meant.

"No, how it is?" Tim's gaze is entreating. "Being a father."

"Like trying to defuse a bomb with your teeth." It's Tony's turn to laugh. "But I wouldn't change it for anything. Tali is still the most important thing that ever happened to me."

Tim straightens his stance. When he turns to Tony, his eyes are clouded with fear and apprehension. He runs his hand through his hair before leaving it against the side of his head.

"I don't know how I'm supposed to do it, Tony," he admits.

"Do what?"

"Work on the team. Be married." He swallows hard. "Be someone's father."

Tony half-shrugs. "You just do the opposite of what you think your dad would have done."

That earns him an exasperated eye-roll.

"Seriously, Tim. Our job is to screw up our kids a little less than our dad screwed us up." Tony nods earnestly. "For what you grew up with, you didn't turn out so bad."

"Neither did you," Tim replies.

Tony runs his tongue against his teeth, laughing. "Speak for yourself."

"I don't know too many people who would've done what you did."

"While that might be true," Tony says, holding his hand up. "We're supposed to be talking about you, not me. Weren't you just asking my advice on how to be _Mr. Mom?"_

Tim doesn't get the movie reference. He props himself up on the railing with one arm as he gives Tony his full attention. Tony holds Tim's gaze. In that moment, he looks so much like the green, wet-behind-the-ears probie who met him at Norfolk.

"You take it just like you did when you started on Gibbs' team," Tony advises. "One day at a time. And when that's too much, one breath at a time. If I can get through it, you will too."

"Thanks," Tim says.

After Tony nods carefully, they don't speak anymore. They turn back to watch the sun climb higher in the sky. Just like old times, they're comfortable in their silence and their company. They haven't just talked like old times in more than a year. Whenever Tony visited lately, it was always for something. To discuss plans to remodel the apartment for Delilah. To catch a football game at the local bar. Somewhere along the way, they stopped just talking.

"I miss working with you," Tim whispers to the ocean.

"'We'll always have NCIS,'" Tony says in a Humphrey Bogart-voice.

Glancing over, Tim chuckles. He doesn't say anything, just watches Tony with those wide, earnest eyes. When Tony turns to face his friend, he smiles sadly.

"I do too, Tim," Tony says. "But you're doing better than you think without me."

"The team just isn't the same without you. It never could be." Pressing his hand to his eyes, Tim sighs desperately like he can't put his thoughts into words. "It's not that it's good or bad. It's just different."

"But are you happy?"

"Yeah, of course." Tim's body goes rigid. "When I'm not being held hostage by psychos."

Tony genuinely laughs. "That's all that really matters."

"What about you, Tony?" Tim asks, his eyes shining. "Are you happy?"

"Yes, I am."

And for the first time in a long time, Tony means it.


	13. Chapter 13

After they get set-up for their temporary quarters on the ship, Tony and Tim are set up for the flight home. They are supposed to leave the following morning on a chopper to Coronado. There, they'll go their separate ways. A military plane will take Tim to DC while a business class civilian flight will whisk Tony back to Paris. Tony is already counting the minutes until Tali will be in his arms again.

_I don't even want to think about the sugar and Saba detox._

Tony's debrief is quick—more a promise not to divulge mission details—while Tim's debriefs are longer and seemingly constant. They barely make it to the mess hall for breakfast when Tim was summoned. He disappears for hours, only to return in time for lunch looking worse than before. He doesn't even eat a bite before he is called away again.

Tony grabs Tim's arm as he goes to leave. "What are you doing down there?"

"The Paraguayan Military is using the SEALs' intel to take down the rebels," he says, his frown deepening. "They want my help identifying the leader. Originally, they asked Manzo."

Tony bristles. "But – "

Shaking his head, Tim continues, "I wasn't going to let that happen. If the rebels know he is cooperating – " He wrinkles his nose "—no, I don't even want to think about what would happen to him. None of the rebels will identify Alejandro, so..."

"That leaves you," Tony says with a nod.

"Yeah, and Gibbs too." Tim shrugs. "If he weren't out of commission."

"Have you seen him yet?"

Tim shakes his head. "I haven't had the chance. I've been too busy watching the video feed of a Paraguayan soldier walking a video camera through their group of prisoners."

"That sounds like fun." Tony half-smiles. " _'Round up the usual suspects.'"_

"Casablanca, again?" Tim's smile is quick as he picks up his lunch tray. "You should visit him."

And with that, Tim follows the sailor out of the mess hall. With his appetite suddenly gone, Tony stabs at the carrots on his tray with a fork. He pokes at what he thinks might have been chicken—or maybe fish— in a past life. He bites into his roll, but it tastes like sawdust. Standing up, he takes his tray to the wash station.

Then, he wanders the ship's halls like a lost ghost. He doesn't know what he is supposed to do, how he is supposed to react. He dropped his life in Paris and rushed around the world to save his team without a second thought. Sure, he and Tim are still close. As close as someone like Tony—who keeps people at arm's length—will let them be. But he and Gibbs haven't spoken since that night in his basement before Tony left. He hadn't thought what he would say to the man he considered a surrogate father.

Before he realizes it, Tony finds himself in the infirmary. Just outside Gibbs' room.

The Navy doctor updates him. She is pretty in a plain, Midwestern farmgirl kind of way: tall and broad-shouldered with hair the color of corn husks. Her update is quick and efficient with no pleasantries or sugarcoating. Gibbs hasn't woken up yet and by her estimate, he has been unconscious for three days. The fever continues to ravage his body, but she doesn't know the cause. Some unfamiliar protozoan, she thinks. She'll know more when the medications she is trying take effect. She makes her promises with a grim face, _I'm doing all I can_ and _He'll wake up soon._

Tony doesn't know what to say. He just nods like he is listening, like he believes it all. When the doctor returns to her paper work, Tony slips into Gibbs' room. It is near pitch-dark with only the blue glow of a machine monitor to guide him. The air is stale and dry, reeking with antiseptic.

Standing at the edge of Gibbs' bed, Tony hugs his arms to his chest. Against the stark white pillow and blanket, Gibbs looks like a corpse, his body and spirit finally spent. The only indication that he's still alive is the fluttering of his eyes underneath their lids. To Tony, it feels a lot like when they met Sharif's bomb. Gibbs kept his own schedule, waking when he was ready.

_I can't remember you like this, Boss._

Tony quietly creeps towards the bed as though he might wake Gibbs. And he doesn't know whether he wants to or not. Right now, Tony just wants the silence and closeness to his former boss. Maybe, if he just waits here long enough, he will figure out where things went sour between them. Even though he lies awake some nights with every scenario of their years together in his head, he never understands it. And maybe, he never will know what went wrong.

Tony steps closer to grip the bed's railing until his knuckles turn white. He soaks in the new wrinkles lining Gibbs' face, the joints of his hands swollen with arthritis, the grey hair now looking white. Words turn over in Tony's head. Everything he ever wanted to say, but never had the strength to. Everything he thought about writing in a letter or an e-mail, but never found the time to. But now that he's here, now that he has the chance, Tony can't remember any of it.

He just sighs quietly.

"I tried, Boss," he whispers. "Really, I did."

_-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-_

The next morning, a surprise storm grounds Tim and Tony's chopper to Coronado. Rain batters against the boat, the rough seas tossing the ship around like an angry toddler with a toy. Against Tony's advice, Tim tries to overdose on Dramamine and takes to his bunk with a trashcan. He rolls to face the wall, leaving Tony alone with his thoughts.

By mid-morning, Tony is unable to listen to Tim wretch any longer. He wanders back to the mess hall. Lunch is more mystery meat with canned carrots and stewed tomatoes. Before he can take a bite, an ensign appears in Tony's vision. He is awkward and nervous, all arms and legs with flame red hair.

"Sir." The ensign gives Tony a little salute.

Tony just stares at him.

"There's a call for you, Sir," he says. "In the comm room."

Tony gesture to the ceiling with his fork. "In this weather? How?"

"I don't know, sir," the ensign replies. "Somehow, it patched through. The Director of NCIS asked for you. I don't know how long we'll hold the line in this weather, so you should come quick."

Tony abandons his tray at the table, figuring he'll get back to it later. He follows the ensign through the twisting hallways, careful to avoid tripping over the knee-knockers. The ship pitches from side to side, making even Tony's own stomach roil. When they reach the communication room, the ensign holds the door open for Tony. Inside, a few seamen work at their computers. The ensign points to one in the corner where a familiar face takes up the entire screen, impatiently waiting.

Tony plops into the hard chair. Director Leon Vance smiles thinly at the sight of him. Behind him, the familiar sight of MTAC makes Tony's heart skip a beat. The walls are still that heinous orange, the same tech works at her desk, the same rows of chairs line up like soldiers.

_"Good to see you, DiNozzo."_ Vance's voice breaks up. _"Even if you look like you've been through hell."_

"You always had a way with words, Director," Tony says, chuckling. "What can I do for you?"

Static flashes across the screen and for a moment, Vance turns pixelated before returning. His movements are slow and choppy like an old horror movie.

_"Good work on helping the SEALs."_ Vance's smile broadens. _"I had thought you would work more in a support role. I wasn't expecting you to gear up. MPO Grange had some choice words about you."_

"All good, I hope."

_"I heard you're an honorary member."_

Tony feels the flush creep up his cheeks. "My team would've done it for me."

_"While I agree, your work was quite impressive by even their standards."_ Before Tony can reply, Vance continues: _"That is why I have decided to award you the NCIS Civilian Service Medal."_

"That would be great, Director. While I appreciate it," Tony says, not looking at the screen, "I don't know whether I'll be back in DC anytime soon. As soon as the storm lets up, I need to get back home."

Vance visibly stiffens _. "Of course, DiNozzo. The next time you're in DC then."_

Tony smiles. "Absolutely."

_"Thank you for your service."_ Vance considers for a moment. _"On this mission and your previous years."_

Tony barely manages a nod. "You're welcome."

At that moment, a commotion erupts from the hallway.

"You can't go in there, Sir," the ensign says. "It's authorized personnel only."

When Tony glances over his shoulder, he finds Tim trying to squeeze past the ensign who has his arms out. Tim's face is a shade of green, his hair plastered against his forehead with sweat. He clutches the trashcan to his chest like it's a weapon. As soon as his gaze lands on Tony, his eyes widen.

"Tony! He's awake!" Tim rambles excitedly. "Gibbs is awake!"

Bristling, Tony licks his lips. "That's great news."

"We should go see him. Now. Just in case, he falls asleep again." When he notices Vance on the screen, he cringes. "Uh, er, um, hello Director Vance. I wasn't expecting to see you in there." He scrunches his nose. Closes his eyes. Gnaws on the inside of his cheek. "It's good to see you, sir."

_"I can say the same thing, Agent McGee. I am glad to see you're well. I was about to send for you."_

Tim brightens. "Oh?"

_"To discuss your unsanctioned skirmish with the Paraguayan rebels,"_ Vance says, flatly.

When Tim wears an _oh shit_ look, Tony just holds his hands up. Then, Tony squeezes Tim's shoulder in consolation. The tilt of Vance's head tells Tony they're done. As he stands up, Tony taps Tim's back to tell him that he'll get through this, that he's been through worse, that he'll see the other side. Tim just morosely sinks into the chair. Before Tony is even out of earshot, Vance lays into Tim.

_I don't miss those days._

As if on auto-pilot, Tony heads down to the infirmary. Since the storm keeps everyone inside, the hallways teem with Navy personnel. They duck out of Tony's way, but the hushed whispers follow him.

This time, the overhead lights burn in Gibbs' room. A television, playing an old 80s movie Tony doesn't recognize, grumbles to itself in the corner. A hospital tray holds a few opened, but untouched containers of Jell-O. For a split second, Tony wonders whether the hospital staff knows Gibbs only eats the green ones. But then again, Gibbs isn't one to complain about anything.

Propped upright in the bed, Gibbs watches the door frame like he is expecting someone. His blue eyes scorch with the same intensity Tony remembers. For a split-second, they soften at the sight of him.

"DiNozzo," Gibbs says, his voice is raspy.

"Boss," Tony replies.

Momentarily, they fall back into the respective roles. Tough as nails team leader and his ever-loyal senior field agent. Tony is the first to break character. He toys with the sleeves of his fatigues.

"Gibbs," Tony whispers, remembering what they are now. "It's good to see you, _Gibbs_. How are you feeling?"

Gibbs' face visibly falls. "Fine."

By the way his hands twist the bedsheets into knots, Tony knows he is a liar. His face is pale, his lips pulled back into a near grimace. He surveys the hospital room as if seeing it for the first time.

"It wasn't a dream," he murmurs to himself.

Tony tilts his head. "What are you talking about?"

"Me and McGee in Paraguay. You in Paris." He raises his eyebrows. "You and Ziva. Tali." He presses his hands against his temples, scrunches his brow. "You leaving the team."

Tony shakes his head. "No, it wasn't."

They stare at each other in uncomfortable silence for what feels like a long time. Gibbs' eyes soak in Tony as though he is trying to put the pieces together. The air in the hospital room begins to grow as thick as that in the jungle. Tony adjusts his collar, shifts his weight. He glances to a chair in the corner, but thinks better of it. He doesn't know how long he'll be staying. But if he isn't, he might as well lay it all out in the open. It might be his only chance to get closure after all.

"What happened to us?" Tony blurts out.

"I broke Rule Five," Gibbs says as though it explains everything.

Tony tilts his head. "You wasted good?"

"I had the best team I ever could." A long pause before he finishes: "And I threw it away."

Tony crosses his arms, settles in his stance. "McGee was built to be senior agent and Torres is pretty damned good too. He thinks he is _Rambo,_ but Sylvester Stallone's got nothing on him."

Gibbs licks his chapped licks. "That's just it."

"I don't understand," Tony says.

"They're great at what they do."

"How can that possibly be bad?"

"They follow orders. Do their paperwork. Run the investigation by my rules." He nods carefully. "They listen and get it right the first time."

"I still don't understand how that's a bad thing, Gibbs."

"You listened when it counted, Tony. But you had your own ideas and you always let me know it. You _challenged_ me." When Tony meets Gibbs' stare, their intensity sucks his breath away. "If you were still on this team, none of this would have happened."

All Tony can do is stare at him.

Gibbs continues: "You would've made McGee stay on that chopper like I told him to."

"Because I would've been the one on your six, not Tim. Leaving a man behind isn't the way you trained us. Why do you think I came from Paris?"

Gibbs' smile is wry before turning sad. "You never were good at following orders."

"Who do you think taught Tim that?" Tony says, grinning.

They laugh like old friends. And for a moment, Tony has a glimpse of the boss he always wanted, the man he always knew Gibbs was under the prickly exterior.

"Abby once said you were the heart of the team," Gibbs says sadly. "I never believed it until now."

"The team seems to be doing just fine without me. It has its own heartbeat, but it just sounds a little different now." Tony rubs the back of his neck, stares at his feet. "Just like we're all different now."

"No chance in convincing you to come back?"

Tony's head snaps up. For a moment, he believes it might be a cruel joke until he meets Gibbs' earnest eyes. Those are the words he wished he could've heard after he accepted Ziva was dead. He would've done anything to feel whole again. Now, what he wanted most leaves him feeling surprisingly hollow. All the time he spent wishing for that one contact that mattered most to him—sure, Tim and Jimmy calling constantly with Abby and Ducky visiting helped, it wasn't the same. He finally understands that he doesn't want it anymore.

He shakes his head. "I'm happy where I am, Gibbs."

Gibbs offers clipped nod, but his expression speaks volumes. It is one of remorse and sadness and longing, one that Tony only saw once a lifetime ago.

In his heart, Tony knows it's the closest thing to an apology he will get.


	14. Chapter 14

The next morning, Tim and Tony get ready to embark for Coronado. They meet on the ship deck just before dawn when the hint of sun peaks over the eastern horizon. Right now, it is nothing more than a sliver of orange, a blade ready to slice the day open. Navy personnel mill around the deck, preparing the chopper, while a pair of SEALs examine their belongings.

Empty-handed, Tim stands awkwardly on the sidelines. He has no idea what hemisphere his gear is in. For all he knows, it could still be in Las Rexachitas or flown back to DC. Hell, it could have picked through by the rebels or thrown out like garbage. None of it matters tough because he is alive and breathing.

He fiddles with a wedding band that has gathered more scratches in a week than most in a lifetime. He half-smiles at it. Everything that will ever matter to him is back in DC.

From the corner of his eye, Tim catches Tony staring. His friend is still wearing those SEAL fatigues, still sporting that week-old shadow. He looks tougher and savager than Tim remembers, but concern glints in Tony's eyes. A smile ghosts Tony's lips.

"She'll be there," he says reassuringly.

"I know. I know.." Tim's gaze locks on his ring before he replies a little surer: _"I know."_

"I know you know."

He shoves his hands deep in his pockets. "I can't believe we're leaving Gibbs."

When Tony shrugs, his backpack rises higher. "The doctor said he would probably too sick to travel for a few more weeks. If you want to get home, this is the only fight."

"It still doesn't seem right," Tim sighs.

_"'If that plane leaves the ground and you're not on it, you'll regret it. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon and for the rest of your life,'_ " Tony says.

Tim blinks. "Did you just quote _Casablanca_ again?"

"I find Bogey's got a quote for everything." Tony considers for a moment. "And so does Dory."

"Who?" Tim asks, tilting his head.

Tony claps his hand on Tim's shoulder. "You'll find out soon enough. Until then, ' _Just keep swimming_.'"

Just as Tim starts to ask, "What?" the blades on the chopper drown out any hope for conversation. When a flight deck worker motions at them, they dart across the deck, heads lowered and shoulders hunched. Moments later, they're strapped into the seats. As soon as they get airborne, Tim's stomach roils. He spends the flight leaning against the seat and sweating through his jumpsuit.

When they land at Coronado, Tim and Tony separate from the SEALs. Their original plans go awry due to some sort of fashion convention that leaves the flights to Paris fully booked. The Navy coordinator forces a bright smile as she tries to work her magic to get Tony home. He asks Tim how the accommodations he made to the apartment are working out for Delilah.

The best the Navy coordinator can do is for Tony a flight of Washington DC tomorrow. Even though he hems and haws, Tony begrudgingly agrees to take it. Tim jokes that it'll be nice to see how he and Delilah decorated Tony's old place. Internally, Tim breathes a deep sigh of relief, thankful he doesn't have to travel alone. He doesn't know quite what to say when he sees her again. Having Tony around makes him feels safe again—like someone has his six. Because, deep down, knows facing his wife after going missing on a rogue mission will be worse than staring down the rebels' guns.

Even though the military plane to Washington chases the daylight, they land after well after dark. After a long taxi ride that Tony pays for—Tim's wallet is still MIA. _Probably eaten by crocodiles,_ he decides—they end up standing in front his apartment building. The night air is humid and oppressive, nearly strangling. The street lamps burn with a sulfuric glow that stretches their shadows to the front door. Tim cranes his neck back to where the light burns in his new—Tony's old—home.

He may have been gone for ten days, but it might as well be a lifetime. His heart aches at the thought of how close Delilah is, how close their baby is. But he stays rooted to the sidewalk.

How will he tell her that he didn't even think about her and the baby when he jumped out of that chopper? How can he explain that he needed to be the hero like he always is? What will he say if she asks whether he'll do it again? Because honestly, he doesn't know the answers.

Tony stares at the building, his eyes darken. He shifts his backpack to his opposite shoulder.

"I know you already told me, but tell me again." Tony's eyes never leave his old window. "There was a dead guy in my apartment. The whole time."

"Yeah," Tim says flatly.

"Underneath the floor while I lived there." Tony wrinkles his nose. "For the whole time."

Tim nods.

"Huh, that would explain why I never felt alone in the bedroom." Tony raises his eyebrows. "We lived through a Hitchcock movie. I never thought I'd the chance to do that."

Without taking his eyes off the building, Tim nods a little harder.

"Was it as much fun as it sounds?" he asks.

Tim laughs thinly. "Not even close."

Even though Tony is trying to distract him from the churning in his gut, it doesn't work. They stand there for what feels like forever. Tony taps his shoulder.

"Time to go, Tim," Tony says.

Tim bites his lip. "What am I supposed to tell her?"

Tony turns back. "About what?"

"About when I jumped off the helicopter. I had to choose between her and work." He scrubs his hand across his chin. Swallows audibly. Presses his lips together. "And I chose work."

Tony leans in his vision until Tim glances over. His face is open and comforting, the friend Tim came to rely on over the years.

"You did the right thing, Tim. It might not feel like it right now, but you did what you were supposed to. You protected those boys like a father should. When their own fathers couldn't." Tony's gaze doesn't waver. "I would have done the same thing."

Tim's eyebrows jump. "Really?"

"Absolutely." When Tim doesn't speak, Tony continues: "Delilah will be proud of you. Just like the rest of us. I know I am. You're the man I always knew you would be, Probie."

The long-lost nickname makes his chest swell. It feels a bit like coming home. And that makes the urge to get back to Delilah even stronger. After a shared nod, Tim leads the way inside. The lobby is deserted except for the night doorman, who glances up from his magazine. At the sight of them, his mouth hangs open and he slowly climbs to his feet.

"I haven't seen you in a while, Mr. McGee. Traveling for work again?" He double-takes at Tony. "Is that you, Mr. DiNozzo? What happened to you? Both of you?"

Tony half-smiles. "We've been working on the sequel to _Tropic Thunder._ It's very hush hush. Don't tell anyone about it. _"_

Even though he looks like he is dying to press, the doorman just slips back into his seat. He keeps his eyes glued to them all the way to the elevator. Tim is thankful he didn't have to deal with _that._

When the elevator doors open, they move down the hallway to the apartment. Tim hesitates at the sight of the familiar door. He goes for the knob, but thinks better of it. He opens his hand, tilts his head. Then he knocks. Tony stares at him, slack-jawed.

"Did you just knock?" he hisses.

Tim just shrugs.

Just as Tony reaches for the know, the door swings open. Abby Scuito greets them. Her face melts from shock to excitement to elation and back again in the course of a second. She yanks Tim into a hug with one arm and Tony with the other. She bounces in her boots, trying to strangle them with her embrace.

"McGee! Tony! You're here!" she says, nearly bursting at the seams. "You're both here. I can't believe you made it home! Both of you!"

When Tim pulls away, she eases her grip. She stares deep into his eyes like she never expected to see him again. Tim swallows hard at the thought.

"Where is she?" Tim asks.

Abby tilts her head. "In the kitchen."

Wriggling out of Abby's grasp, Tim leaves Tony in her clutches. Abby dives in for a double armed hug that makes Tony beg for mercy. As Tim leaves Tony to his own devices, Abby's voice carries with questions of Tali and Paris and Tony's dad. Tony can't get a word in edgewise. The normalcy makes Tim yearn for his wife, his life, his team, his family all over again.

He nearly runs into the kitchen, but grinds to a halt at the sight of her.

Sitting in her wheelchair, Delilah is already facing him. Her eyes are sunken and puffy, her skin ashen. She looks like she has aged years since he saw her last. When she notices him, her face pulls into a bright grin. And then, he is moving. Tripping and stumbling over his own feet to get to her. By the time he reaches her, he is on his knees. He cups her cheeks with his hands. He kisses her deeply. A tear slides down her face and he sweeps it away with his thumb. He barely registers he is crying too.

"I can't believe you're really here, Tim. You're home," Delilah says, her voice makes him cry harder.

"I'm so sorry, Dee," he whispers. "I'm so sorry."

"For what?" she asks.

She studies his face like she is trying to memorize every detail. And that's the moment, he realizes she can't read his mind. He could confess his sins. Tell her that she wasn't on his mind that day for his own absolution or he can carry the burden like the damned. Her eyes sparkle when they catch the light. The words rise to his tongue, but he swallows them back down.

_This will be the only time I ever lie to you. I promise._

"For leaving you, Dee," Tim chokes out. "I should never have gone to Paraguay. I should never have left both of you."

Those words make Delilah smile like he has a secret.

"What?" he blurts out.

"The three of us." She places his hands on the tiny bulge of her stomach.

He blinks. "The three of _you?_ What do you mean? _"_

"We're having twins, Tim."

Tim's vision starts to grey at the edges like it did when the doctor first said they were pregnant. He wants to ask Delilah how twins could be possible because one baby was supposed to be medically impossible. But two— _two babies at the same time—_ how could that be even physically possible? He can't find his voice. Suddenly, the apartment feels like it is a thousand degrees. Underneath the loud buzzing in his ears, he hears Abby cheering and Tony laughing.

They stand at the sidelines. Abby's arms are still around Tony's neck. He wears that shit eating grin like he just pulled the prank of his life. And that's the moment Tim starts to feel oddly excited about it all. His hands are on his wife's belly, where she carries their children— _his children._ Even though his anxiety kicks off the charts, he can't help feeling like he is about to start his greatest adventure.

"Twins," Tim whispers as though saying it makes them real.

Abby gushes, "Twins are going to be so much fun, McGee. You can dress them alike. Oh! I'm going to get them matching skeleton onsies with hearts where theirs…"

Tony just shakes his head. "Oh boy, Tim, are you in for it."


	15. Chapter 15

The first package arrives several weeks after Tony returns home.

On the day it comes, Tony is slogging down the humid hallway to his third-floor walk-up after a long day at work. Unfortunately, he is still learning that quintessential Parisian charm does not include modern conveniences like air conditioning or elevators. Tali hangs back, tired from the stairs and the jaunt from the Metro. Her right fist is pressed against her eyes, her hair sweat slicked against her head.

"Abba," she whines.

Glancing over his shoulder, Tony half-smiles. He feels as tired as she looks. He signs, _What is it, my love?_

"Hot," she says. "Hot, Abba." Then she signs, _Make it stop._

"I wish I could," he says. "We're in the middle of a heatwave. Do you know what that is?"

She stares up with those questioning eyes. His heart clenches at the glimpse of her mother, a rare sight these days. As the time passes, she is starting to look more like him, act more like him, _be_ more like him. It makes his heart ache for the traces of Ziva he loses every day. Soon, there will be nothing left.

"Hot," she repeats.

Realizing she still doesn't understand, he signs: _It will be cold soon._

She puts her hands on her hips before signing: _"When?"_

_I don't know._ He sighs laboriously. _Can we go home now?_

She moves down the hallway like she is being pulled by invisible strings. She huffs and puffs the entire way before stopping beside him like that sapped the last of her energy. He closes his eyes for a moment, trying to find his Zen. If two-year-old Tali is this melodramatic, he can't wait for the dreaded teenage drama queen years.

Tali jerks on his pant leg. When Tony opens his eyes, he finds her inspecting something on the welcome mat. She pokes at the small, brown package like it's a bomb. Tali grins wickedly as she stoops to lift it. As she dances around, Tony tries to peek at the label. He takes it from her.

_From Saba? More Kraft?_ she signs before saying, "Yum. Yum."

From where he stands, it is too tiny to contain the regular packages of Hawaiian Punch and Kraft Macaroni and Cheese Senior sends bimonthly. Tony takes the box from her, turning it over to study the handwriting. A familiar careful, militaristic style addresses the package to Tali DiNozzo. When he realizes who sent it, Tony's heart drops into his stomach.

"It's from Agent…" Too formal. "…uh, Uncle…" Too informal. "It's from Gibbs." That's about the only thing to sound right. "Just Gibbs."

At the sound of his name, Tali's face turns serious. She nods at the recognition of the man who is merely a figure in bedtime stories that Tony tells about her mother and her team…her family. _Their family._ Tony hands Tali the box so he can unlock the door. She clutches it protectively to her chest.

Once they're inside, Tony drops the bag of groceries by the front door. An errant orange races down the hallway, but Tali kicks it into the living room like a soccer ball. She beats Tony to the kitchen. Then, she stands on tip-toe to slide the package on the counter before scrambling on a barstool. Tony grabs a knife to combat the layers of packing tape.

"Present, present, present," Tali sings over and over.

"I bet it's something special," Tony says, egging her on.

That makes her squeal. As he cuts into the package, his mind whirs as to what it could be. Turning down Gibbs' job offer on that boat was their last contact, their last communication. Tony had expected a phone call, maybe a letter. Hell, even an e-mail. But as the days stretched into weeks and finally a month, nothing ever came. According to Tim, Gibbs was acting "more Gibbs-like than normal" and recently returned to NCIS due to the sleeping sickness he contracted in Paraguay. Since it was his only update, Tony had to be satisfied with what he got. Nothing.

Underneath the brown paper and tape cocoon, Tony uncovers a red, velvet jewelry box. Tali leans onto his hands, nearly toppling the bar stool. She drawls out an _ohh._ Two notes are nestled beneath the box.

Tony picks up the one addressed to Tali. It reads, _Saved these for someone special to me, but she couldn't use them. They were my mother's. Treat them kindly._

He moves onto the one written to him. _Tony - Gave Tim my father's watch. Seemed right. Getting yours through customs right now. Good work in Paraguay. – Gibbs._

Tony just stares at the paper, unable to move. Tali shoves it away, leans into his face.

"Good present?" she asks.

Tony half-nods. "I think it'll be a great present."

When he opens the jewelry box, he finds a necklace of large, tear-drop shaped diamond on slight gold chain. Attached to the backing are matching diamonds stud earrings. Tony gasps.

"That's beautiful," he whispers. "What do you think, love? Isn't that a great present?"

Tali scrutinizes it before shaking her head. _Bad,_ she signs. _Where is the toy?_

Chuckling, Tony nuzzles his face into her hair. "You'll like it someday. I just hope it isn't too soon."

She pulls him into a tight hug before signing for Kraft Macaroni and Cheese. Rolling his eyes and silently cursing his father, Tony reheats last night's leftovers. They fall into their usual night routine of eating macaroni and cheese while watching a classic Disney Movie—Snow White, tonight.

And after Tali is asleep in her bed, Tony takes Gibbs' jewelry into his bedroom. He places it in the box where he stores Tali's family heirlooms. Those bits and pieces of the David family to survive the fire with her. Pieces of his own childhood like his mother's silver hairbrush and her wedding ring. Inconsequential things that he hopes will mean something to Tali someday. He puts Gibbs' jewelry on the very top, a place of honor.

Despite everything they have been through, Gibbs will always be a part of their family.

_-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-_

The worst heatwave of the century continues to Paris for the rest of July. Each humid, sweat-soaked day bleeds into a week and then, another month before Tony forgets all about Gibbs' promise about an arriving gift. Tony falls back into his normal routine with surprising ease. No one at Interpol even asks about his trip, but based on their whispers and side-eyes, everyone knows exactly what happened.

By day, he is in the classroom with his newest group, a bunch of bumbling recruits who are more Inspector Clouseau than Magnum, P.I. By night, he carefully defuses Tali's temper tantrums with bomb-squad precision. In between all of it, he manages to in squeezes as many e-mails, phone calls, and Skype chats with Tim, Abby, Ellie, Ducky, Jimmy—and hell, even his new friend, Nick—as he can.

The one contact he wants—no, he _needs_ more than his next breath _—_ never comes. Tony keeps busy enough to pretend he doesn't notice.

Shortly after the heat breaks in August, a small package turns up by his door. It is a thin cylinder about the length of his forearm. The stamps and signatures covering the package partially obscure an address label written in Gibbs' handwriting. After Tali settles down for another viewing of _Frozen,_ Tony cuts through the packaging to slide out the contents. A piece of metal clinks on the counter.

It is a dayscope to an USMC M40-A1.

Tony picks it up, turning it over in his hands. He hasn't seen it since the team was headed back from Somalia. After Gibbs turned up to save the team. Tony peers through it at Tali's drawings of the Eiffel Tower and the Arc de Triomphe on the refrigerator. They look sinister through the sniper scope.

Tony turns back to the tissue paper and the box for a note. There isn't one.

_Why did Gibbs send this to me?_

As it turns out, Tony doesn't have to wonder for very long. Pieces of the M40 turns up on Tony's doorstep like a dismembered body after a mob hit. First, the bipod. Then, the action followed shortly by sling. When the barrel arrives, Tony orders a gun locker.

By the end of the August, Tony has all the pieces to a working sniper rifle. He takes a day off from work to clean it even though the metal gleams in the sunlight. Then, he assembles it before locking it away. He turns the locker, hand splayed against the door. He sighs heavily.

"I don't understand, Boss."

_-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-_

On a Saturday just after Labor Day, Tony takes his usual weekend excursion to the Jardin de Tuileries with Tali and his father. Whomever told him April in Paris was perfection must've never visited on a fall day like this. The morning sun hangs high and bright in a sky full of white, wispy clouds. A slight breeze rustles the trees, making their full leaves dance and sway. The fountain in the center of the park is filled, just like every other day, with tiny, toy sailboats. Tourists, with their cameras and cell phones, take pictures of the rainbow of sails racing across the green water.

Sitting on a bench between Tony and Senior, Tali kicks her legs back and forth. She jumps to her feet before climbing back onto the bench again. Her eyes never leave the boats.

"Boat, Abba? Boat?" she asks, jerking her chin at the fountain.

Tony sips from his coffee cup. "Sure, love. What color should we get today?"

She opens her mouth, lips moving before her face falls. _Purple,_ she signs.

"Purple," Tony agrees, ruffling her hair. "You'll learn the colors soon."

When she glances at him, her eyes shine like stars. His heard clenches for a split second before she pulls on his hand. As soon as he is on his feet, Tali darts to hers. She takes his hand, even though her muscles are tight like she wants to bolt for the fountain. Tony turns back to Senior.

"Are you coming, Dad?" he asks.

"And lose the bench?" Chuckling, Senior shakes his head. "You know we'll never another one, Junior. Damned tourists. I'll stay here."

Tony doesn't even move before he notices a familiar face cutting through the band of tourists. Silver hair with that awful jarhead haircut, pale skin and piercing blue eyes. As he approaches, the man moves with a pronounced limp.

"What is Gibbs doing here?" Tony whispers.

Tali perks up. "Gibbs? Here?"

When Gibbs joins them, he keeps his distance like a stranger. He doesn't say a word. He just stares at Tony and Tali and Senior as though he is trying to soak up this picture of domestic bliss. Tony doesn't know what to say, what to do, what to even _think._ Senior stands to warily approach the pair.

To her credit, Tali doesn't even notice the tension building between the men. She drops Tony's hand to close the distance until she is hugging Gibbs' knees tightly. She grasps his legs together, swinging him wildly back and forth. To her, he is part of her bedtime stories, not the man who ran Tony halfway across the world.

"Gibbs!" Her shrieks are muffled. "Gibbs!"

Tony scrambles to pull her away before she knocks him over. Gibbs stoops to rub the top of her head. After Tony wrangles Tali back, he struggles to keep his expression neutral. Holding Tali's hand, he squares his shoulder. Something that might be regret flashes across Gibbs' face.

"Tali, this is your…" Tony searches for the right word, but all he comes up with is "…your Gibbs."

Gibbs half-smiles. "That works."

Tali bounces with energy. She relapses into an explosive bout of Hebrew before signing _Ima's friend. Right Abba?_

Tony nods. And with that, she wriggles away again to clutch Gibbs' knees. The older man can't help but laugh as touches his curls. He moves to pick her up, but after looking at Tony, he seems to decide against it. Gibbs gently eases Tali off his legs and guides her towards Senior. As if sensing the looming showdown, Senior deftly swoops to take Tali towards the fountain.

"Let's go get that boat." Senior's voice carries. "The purple one you wanted."

After they are gone, Tony turns to face Gibbs. Tension bubbles into Tony's gut and suddenly, his coat sleeve is soaked. He glances down to find a crushed paper coffee cup in his hand. Under Gibbs' intense stare, he drops it into the dirt and kicks it away. The breeze drags it away like a clumsy butterfly.

"How did you find me?" Tony asks.

"Had McGee ping your phone," Gibbs replies flatly.

Tony doesn't respond.

Gibbs continues: "I hear you and Tali are spending Thanksgiving with him and Delilah. That's good."

Tony takes the bait. "Tim said he couldn't bear the thought of us spending the holiday in a hotel. He seems to think blow-up mattresses in his living room will be better. I'm not sure how we're all supposed to fit into that apartment. Especially with the twins."

Gibbs half-smiles again. "They aren't due until Christmas."

"And if they're early?"

"I guess you'll be able to help out."

Tony nods carefully. And then, he knows he ran out of things to say. All the small talk in the world can't fill the chasm standing between them. And Tony has to know _why._

"What are you doing here, Boss?" Tony asks.

"Already said McGee – "

"No, Boss. I mean, _here."_ Shaking his head, Tony meets Gibbs' eyes. "What are you doing in Paris? Talking to me?"

They hold each other gaze until Gibbs is the first to break it. He turns to watch Senior and Tali play with a lilac sailboat in the fountain.

"I came to see how you were doing," Gibbs says, nodding. "And it looks well."

Tony crosses his arms. "If you wanted to know how I was, you could've called me. Or e-mailed. Or sent a letter. Christ, you could've given me anything."

"You got the sniper rifle." It is half-statement, half-question.

"Yeah, I did." Tony holds his hands out. "What the hell was that?"

With a jerk of his head, Gibbs guides Tony back to the bench. He glares at a tourist until the man scrambles to take pictures of the nearest tree. Then, Gibbs folds himself onto the green metal bench with a loud groan. Tony hangs back as if rooted to the ground.

_Should I hear him out? Or walk away?_

He rubs the back of his neck. Kicks at a loose pebble. Runs his shoe along the dirt. Releases a half-hearted sigh. If he leaves now, Tony might never get the closure he wants. But then, he doesn't need this anymore. Eventually, Tony sits on the opposite end of the bench, but he doesn't look at Gibbs.

Pressing his lips together, Gibbs starts, "That rifle was the only thing I could rely on in combat. It was the only thing I trusted until…"

When his voice trails off, Tony hazards a glance at him. "Until what?"

"Until I built a team that would never let me down." Gibbs' eyes are fixed on the palace at the edge of the park. "You, Ziva, and Tim were the best I ever had. The best I ever will."

"Then why did you cut me out?" Tony asks suddenly.

Gibbs' brow furrows. "I never did."

"Yes," Tony says, holding his ground. "I don't know how or when it happened. But one day, it was like a switch flipped. It was 'Gear up everyone. Except for you, DiNozzo. Stay here and help Abby. Reorganize the evidence garage. Accompany the body with Duck when Palmer was gone. Go get my coffee.'"

"I never made you get coffee."

"Okay, maybe I went too far with that one." Tony chews on the inside of his cheek. "It was like you didn't want me around after Iraq."

Gibbs scrubs his hand over his mouth, sighing. "After you went to Shanghai, I realized there was nothing left to teach you. You knew everything I had to offer."

"So you decided to just cut me out?" Tony asks.

"I was trying to show you that you were ready for your own team."

Heaving a breath, Tony searches for calm. He steeples his hands together as he tries to stave off the tsunami of emotion threatening to drown him.

"Why didn't you just say that?"

Gibbs just shrugs. "What I did seemed easier at the time."

"You destroyed what we had," Tony says.

Gibbs' head snaps to look at Tony. His eyes are wide and uncertain as though he couldn't comprehend the damage he'd done. And for a moment, Tony considers that he might not understand. That to the functional mute, he believed his actions were louder and clearer than words would have been.

"I thought you didn't want me around anymore," Tony says flatly. "That's part of the reason I came to Paris. It felt like a good place to start over."

"It is a great place to raise a child."

Tony shakes his head. "I was going to come here, regardless of Tali. She just set everything in motion earlier than I had planned. I've been talks with Interpol off since on after we took down La Grenouille."

"And you never said anything," Gibbs says accusingly.

"Can you blame me, Gibbs? You tend to get more than a little territorial with –" Tony uses air quotes "— 'your' agents. What would you have done if you knew Interpol was trying to hire me for years?"

Setting back into his seat, Gibbs half-smiles. Tony figures there are visions of sniper rifles and grenade launches and Molotov cocktails dancing through his head.

Tony chuckles. "That's what I thought."

"Look, Tony I would have been proud of you." He considers for a long moment. "Eventually. I was responsible for you, professionally and personally." At the fountain, Tali lets out a loud whoop. Gibbs genuinely smiles. "I am proud of everything you've accomplished."

"Thank you," Tony says.

"And thank you for risking everything to save Tim and me when I couldn't. It was more than what I could have asked."

Tony nods. "It was what you would have done."

Both men sit in silence for a long time just watching Tali chase her purple sailboat around the fountain while Senior struggles to keep up. She tries to climb into the fountain after it, but Senior catches her before Tony needs to get up. When a boat with a green sail gets too close, Tali uses her stick to sink it to the bottom of the fountain. After it doesn't resurface, she holds her stick above her head like a sword and laughs maniacally. Senior struggles, in broken French, to apologize to a sobbing, little boy and his red-faced mother. The scene makes Gibbs and Tony laugh.

"Are we good, DiNozzo?" Gibbs asks.

"I don't know," Tony answers honestly.

"Losing Ziva was bad enough. I still have Tim, but it's not enough. I'm trying to fix this." Gibbs nods to himself. "I need to fix what happened."

"Are you trying your best, Gibbs?" Tony blurts out.

He shakes his head. "I haven't, but I will."

"Then, I guess we'll just have to see what happens."

Half-nodding, Gibbs clasps his hand on Tony's shoulder. "I'm not going anywhere this time, Tony."

"Neither am I, Boss. Neither am I."


End file.
